


be not afraid of plenty

by oneinspats



Series: swimming through fire [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Animal Sacrifice, M/M, Post-RotK, Theoden is still alive, Yuletide, eomer and grima on a roadtrip in winter, it makes sense culturally ok, they're anglo-saxons + vikings on horses, this is just shameless nonsense for the yuletide season, this is like those stupid hallmark christmas flicks but for Grima and Eomer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28209231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: Post-ROTK, Grima's trying to make good on a vague sorta-promise that he'd be a slightly more ethical individual (for a given value of "ethical"), Eomer is learning what it is to be king-in-waiting. It is all a bit much for everyone involved - made more so when the two are stuck together on a tour of the north of Rohan in the winter season.Eomer has zero (0) feelings for a certain former traitor. Grima insists his heart is non-existent, he might have eaten it when he was in the womb. Things progress from there.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Gríma Wormtongue
Series: swimming through fire [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608931
Comments: 77
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Swimming Through Fire universe (i.e. Naming the World; My Land is Bare) but you don't really need to have read them to follow this.

It’s a filthy winter. A filthy, filthy cold winter. Everything that is about to unfold is winter’s fault.

In Edoras, Éomer would call the nights murkey because they allow a person to drink in the dim, smoke filled corners of a tavern then drip away into inky alleyways with someone or other and attempt mutual warmth in stable lofts after a bit of discreet conversation held only with eyes. But here? Traveling northward to visit such-and-such a village because his uncle has decided that Éomer must take on the duties Théodred once saw to in order for him to learn what it is to wear a crown. Frigid. Filthily so. 

Not that he minds traveling to and fro between towns and villages. Quite the opposite, it’s vastly superior to being cooped up in Edoras. But the cold sits ill with him. It’s been a winter of little snow, just these sharp days of wind chill and chapped lips. Nights of hard earth and ponds with thin, fragile ice that could be glass. It breaks with a look. Howling wolves on distant hills bring fear and exhilaration. 

These are all things he loves. For there is something about being outside when nature is unforgiving and seeks to humble a man. Éomarc summers are sultry, languorous affairs. Winters, though, they remind a man how small he is in comparison to the greatness of the world. 

But this winter? Not so much.

Which, Éomer supposes, has to do with how the whole business was handled before he left for parts far-off. Théoden had said, _Théodred had forty years of learning kingship, we must catch you up._ And then he had looked at Éomer in a strange manner Éomer doesn’t have a word for. But it’s been that way since March. This is what happens when the nephew lives and the son and heir dies. 

Not that Théoden means to be cruel — and he isn’t. He isn’t cruel, because he’s Théoden and Éomer would never say that cruelty is in his nature. No, Théoden is kindness and honour and fatherliness and generosity of spirit. But it’s this look. Éomer can’t shake it. How it burrows into his marrow and reminds him that there is no undoing all that has happened. He cannot play happy family hard enough to bring Théodred back because nothing will bring Théodred back. Nothing will un-ghost him. He will forever linger as a shade in the shadow of the dais saying: _you are wearing the crown that ought to be mine._

To which Éomer would happily reply: _Please resurrect yourself, cousin-mine, take this from me. I don’t want it._

Anyway, the dilemma is the presence of a certain oath-breaker-traitor who is currently prodding the fire into good behaviour. Théoden had said, _Oh and take Gríma with you. It will give him something to do, make him useful. He’s the cause of some of Éomarc’s ill, so he might as well be used in the cure. And he knows the Wold, it could come in handy._

Mostly, Éomer suspects Théoden was finding it difficult looking at both of them. It is mid-December. Théodred’s birthday is in a matter of days. 

‘I think the fire is fine,’ Éomer says. Gríma glowers at him from across the flames. ‘It’s quite large enough.’ 

‘It is cold, my lord, and it keeps away unnecessary wild animals.’ 

Éomer backtracks: he was lamenting winter and the cold. Because cold necessitates fire to stave off the chill of night air. And the dark, which Gríma does not enjoy. Also the wild animals. All those howling wolves, screaming foxes, humanesque shrieking of big cats. 

But, fire also lights up Gríma’s face with unhallowed shadows. It marks out deep set, pale eyes that dart about, frantically absorbing every person, every object, every blade of grass, every tangle of weeds. It highlights cheekbones, the thin mouth folded into a scowl, pointed nose. The fire does not soften these features, nor does it make them attractive, but it does cause them to stand out. 

And so Éomer finds himself staring. Initially, he told himself it was because he did not trust Gríma. Then, he told himself it was because Gríma has one of those faces that a person can’t help but stare at; like a boat collision. Not that Éomer thinks of it thus, but he spent several days telling himself he did. 

No, to Éomer’s great annoyance and horror, he _likes_ looking at it. Like a boat collision but less for the transfixing nature of the ugliness of destruction, than for the striking and fascinating nature of destruction. So, he studies it. He thinks that if the snake is going to be around for a while yet Éomer may as well resign himself to it. 

Gríma’s face is beyond pale and made entirely of angles; far too pointy and jagged, like rock cliffs. But, it fits with the rest of the body which is, for all intents and purposes, a jumble of limbs loosely strung together and dropped into clothes that drape, that fold and enclose, that secret him away into shadows. Like linens swathed about the bodies of the dead. There is nothing about the oath-breaker that could be called attractive. 

Yet, here Éomer is. Making a study of him. 

Which is the fire’s fault. And the fire exists because of the cold. Therefore, it can all be blamed on winter. The longer he is traveling with Gríma, the more the season gets under his skin, the same as how Gríma gets under his skin. Though winter, unlike some, hasn’t committed treason. A fact Éomer repeats to himself whenever Gríma looks at him with that hooded expression of his. The one that can only be described as cunning, sly, wolfish. And, if the light is right, terribly hungry.

Life has become a bit complicated since the war. 

[As he drunkenly told Éothain during the nine days of midsummer jól: _I dislike Gríma because I find him confusing._

 _How so?_ Éothain asked. 

_I don’t like him because he is a traitorous, oath-breaking son of a bitch who is rude, mean and cheats at cards. Yet, that said, the thought of anything bad happening to him upsets me._

_That’s called having a basic human decency, Éomer. Having a good heart._

_It’s called being constantly annoyed by the man’s existence._ ]

Producing two potatoes from his saddle bag Gríma carefully places them against the embers of the fire. When he catches Éomer staring he shrugs.

‘Where did you get the potatoes?’ 

‘The last village we were in. I purchased them thinking they would be an improvement over hardtack. Plus, they would be something warm to eat and the thought of that delights me. Because I am cold.’ 

Feeling that he ought to add to their supper, Éomer roots around in his pack before triumphantly pulling out a flask. ‘Aha! Réamwín?’ 

It is with some consideration that Gríma eyes him. Which makes Éomer think there is a good reason the other man is always complaining of being tired. It must take such energy to be constantly suspicious of everyone and everything. The very thought of it exhausts. It also annoys, he had thought them past this cagey half-dance of two steps forward, two-steps back. He had thought it clear that the world wasn’t out to get Gríma.

[Gríma had said, back around the coronation of Aragorn, _I think I might have mispriced Háma._ To which Éomer replied, _Yes, you did._ Then Gríma sat awkwardly, playing with the hems of his sleeves before saying, _I suppose I might have mispriced you, as well. Though perhaps not so poorly as I did Háma._

A statement that made Éomer think: _Oh_. Then nothing else because his mind went off to rummage about in the memory bin holding up bits and bobs declaring: _aha, remember when you both could have a functioning conversation about normal things like weather and the state of the roads?_

And, because Éomer is a man of grace and wit, he said, _It’s a marvel what your eyes suddenly are able to see once you stop committing treason. And when you manage to dislodge your head from your arse._

This prompted Gríma to scuttle away for the remainder of the day and Éomer took himself to a tavern with Éothain in order to complain about the state of the world and how people, all people, are stupid.]

Gríma completes his calculation of Éomer’s motives and, deeming them apparently trustworthy, gives a small nod. Éomer happily takes a drink then passes it over with a _wæs hæl_. Gríma returns the sentiment, takes a sip, then passes it back. They continue this exchange for several minutes. 

‘How long until they’re done?’ Éomer asks, nodding to the potatoes. 

‘A while yet.’ 

‘Tarocchi?’ 

Gríma shrugs. Sure, why not. They can play a game. So long as Éomer does not cheat as he did last time. Éomer rolls his eyes. Declares that he did not cheat. It isn’t his fault Gríma got distracted and stopped card counting, or whatever it is he does to win every game. 

The cards are pulled out from Éomer’s pack and handed to Gríma, ‘Since you lost our last game, you can start this one.’

From the folds of dark grey and blue clothes emerge Gríma’s hands as two slender, thin boned birds from a hidden brush. Éomer stares at them. Gríma shuffles. Éomer glances up to catch Gríma watching him watching Gríma’s hands. Gríma’s face betrays no expression save for his pale eyes which are questioning. They spend a long moment searching Éomer’s own before dropping down to the cards. 

Moving closer, so they aren’t playing around the fire, Éomer takes up the dealt cards and inspects them and, deciding they’re good enough, declares that they shall play. Gríma duly deals out the talons. Éomer, as forehand, plays the first trick.

The first round is completed in relative quiet. An owl hoots from nearby trees. Dry grass rustles. Above them, the moon is almost full. The horses make content horse noises. It has, thus far, been a snowless season. Éomer hopes it will continue thus. At least until they complete this collection of visitations and return to Edoras. 

‘Have you seen your sister recently?’ Éomer asks.

‘Not since before the war. Let us say it’s been two years.’ 

‘Is that usual?’ 

‘Usual enough, my lord. She’ll be along soon, though.’ 

Éomer takes a trick with a triumphant _ha_. 

Gríma tuts: ‘I let you have it. To make you feel better.’ 

‘Aw, isn’t that sweet of you,’ Éomer mocks before laughing. ‘Has she sent word?’ 

Gríma hums a question of: _how do you mean?_

‘How do you know she’ll be along soon,’ Éomer clarifies. 

‘I just know.’ Gríma pauses to carefully collect his trick. ‘It’s a twin thing, I think. Or, maybe it’s a galdorcræft thing. I don’t know, could be both. Or neither.’ 

‘Oh yes, I always forget you’re twins. Who was born first?’ 

‘Brynja.’ 

‘So, you’re the baby of the family, if I remember the order of your siblings rightly.’ 

And what a face Gríma pulls. Éomer smirks, happily takes a trick then buries himself into his cards. Gríma is winning by a slim margin but Éomer firmly believes he can catch up, if not overtake the man. He wishes to win again if only to put a damper on Gríma’s ten-games-in-a-row streak. When Gríma wins it is expressed in the most subtle preening Éomer has ever witnessed. When he loses, it’s a night of sour expressions and grousing about how he is certain Éomer cheated. 

‘Do you miss her?’ Éomer asks. 

‘Who?’ 

‘Your sister.’

‘At times.’ Gríma takes another trick. 

‘How often do you see her? What’s the average?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ an elegant shrug. ‘Once every few years. Her husband has itchy feet so they tend to travel much of the year, but keep south in winter months.’ 

Right, that makes sense. Éomer picks at the edge of a card. Turns over a question he isn’t sure how to ask. He believes Gríma to be a relatively solitary creature. Oh, he speaks of this sister here and there, but Éomer’s image of Gríma has always been of a man alone. Therefore, how can he answer Éomer’s question? Which is: how can a person, who has defined himself in relation to his family, understand himself and his role in the world when there is no family left? 

Éomer has always been a son, cousin, nephew, brother. Now, with Éowyn married and in Gondor, he is nothing. He supposes he is a nephew. But barely that, for he believes the role of Heir Apparent to have irreparably altered his relationship to his uncle. 

That, and his living and Théodred dying. But there’s no point in dwelling on the irreversible. 

‘I’m sure your sister will not be nearly so negligent as mine,’ Gríma says in a terribly quiet manner. As if he felt he oughtn’t be saying it at all. ‘You and Éowyn have a different relationship, my lord.’ 

‘Yes,’ Éomer mutters. ‘A nonexistent one.’ 

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ 

‘How far would you go?’ 

‘A strained one.’ Gríma catches himself and he freezes, a wild animal that has caught the scent of a predator on the wind. But Éomer sees no cause for such a reaction. What has he to say in response to this truth? He and Éowyn are strained. Have been since they came away from Aldburg after their mother’s death. Anyway, he delivers truths to Gríma by the handful. It is only fair the gift of “this is not what you wish to hear but it is what you need to hear” is passed back to him. So he shrugs the same time as Gríma sucks in a breath between teeth and begins a long apology on speaking out of turn about things he knows nothing of — &tc. &tc. 

Éomer sighs. He waits. Rulers are supposed to be gracious and patient so he works diligently to apply Boromir’s philosophy of letting people have the occasional run-on. The lord said to Éomer: _There are some people you need to let speak. They have to natter for a bit in order to feel like they’ve done what they feel is necessary and have said what they felt needed saying._

Gríma carries on for a bit before the apology slows before dwindling out. 

‘There’s nothing to apologize for,’ Éomer says to Gríma’s worried face. ‘I asked a question.’ 

‘I spoke out of turn, my lord —’ 

‘I heard it once, I don’t need to hear it again.’ 

Gríma clamps his mouth shut and ducks behind his cards. 

//

The game ends when the potatoes are done. Gríma won so he’s looking terribly pleased with himself. Éomer says, ‘I let you win. To make you feel better.’ And Gríma primly replies, ‘You did not. I am simply better at this game than you.’ 

‘And we’re always playing a game.’ 

‘That’s right, my lord,’ a cool stare, ‘I don’t think we’ll ever stop. Save for when one of us dies.’ 

//

The next morning is a gauzy, low, purpling pink sky. A light dusting of snow sits gayly on grasses, dry ground, their saddles and bags. The White Mountains are shadowed figures at this early hour and hunch against the western skyline, waiting for the low sun to illuminate them. Then, they will glint like diamonds. 

Gríma continues to be noticeably quiet. As opposed to his usual quiet. It makes Éomer want to shake him, tell him to calm down, that everything is more or less fine. Well, nothing is fine, but no one is going to do anything to him. 

‘Apple?’ Éomer asks, taking one out from his bags. Rubbing it on his tunic he passes it over. 

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Gríma secrets it away into his cloak. Éomer supposes he must have a pocket or three in there where he keeps gods’ know what. Poisons, maybe. Secrets of state. Small, sharp daggers that slide between ribs slick as hot oil. Or maybe it’s just a lot of snacks. He does have a tendency to be able to produce food at any given moment. 

‘You weren’t wrong, you know. Last night.’ 

‘My lord.’ Gríma’s face betrays nothing as he mounts his horse. 

They ride in silence for the first hour of their journey. Éomer turns the Éowyn question over in his head. He isn’t entirely sure what he missed. She accused him once of not understanding her and he can’t, exactly, deny that. 

‘I don’t think I ever understood what it was she wanted,’ Éomer says before he can stop himself. 

He receives no reply save for an askance look from Gríma. 

Éomer defends himself in the face of Gríma’s relentless silence: ‘I was always away. And she never told me anything. Asking Éowyn how she was doing would only reap an: _I’m fine,_ or, _Oh, you know._ No, I don’t know, that is why I’m asking.’ 

Gríma now studies the sky with great intent so Éomer quiets himself. This conversation is not a wise one. Few conversations with Gríma are wholly wise. Or, at least, few conversations with Gríma over the last three years are wise ones. Prior to that, it was hit and miss. Depended on what he figured a person’s role to be in the grand game of Éomarc politics. 

But, Éomer thinks, this conversation contains no new information. It’s just him picking away at old scabs, most of which Gríma is already acquainted with, if only by dint of being in the King’s household. Éomer and his sister never quarrelled quietly. 

‘I never stopped her from doing what she liked,’ Éomer insists after a moment of thought. ‘Did you hear otherwise?’ 

‘She wanted to be a rider.’ 

‘Well, yes, but that’s different.’ 

‘How so, my lord? What if your sister wished to be, oh I don’t know, a great blacksmith or merchant. Would that have been more palatable? Would you have countenanced her taking up ironmongery?’ 

‘Well, for one, she wouldn’t die if she was a blacksmith or merchant. I mean, I’m not sure how I would feel about it, my sister as a blacksmith.’

‘But if your lady sister went to you and said: my dearest dream is to work in a smithy. You would have said, Smith away sister-mine.’ 

‘Well, I don’t know that working in a smithy is appropriate for anyone in our noble house.’ 

‘You do understand what I’m getting at, my lord?’ 

Éomer does and does not but wishes to pivot the conversation. Except Gríma is saying, ‘It can be safely assumed that your sister will die eventually. The human condition is our mortality, after all. So if your sole motivation for nay-saying her one wish is keeping her alive, you are fighting a losing battle.’ 

‘You know what I meant,’ Éomer snaps. ‘She is my sister. It is my duty to keep her safe.’ And, he doesn’t add, it was something he promised their father he would do. Keep the family safe. And he has already failed his mother, his cousin, his uncle to a certain degree, therefore he has no plans on failing Éowyn. He adds, a bit defensively, ‘Did you not think the same thing before your sister married?’ 

Gríma raises a delicate eyebrow. ‘Hardly.’ 

‘You never worried for her safety?’ 

‘Brynja and I are a different case.’ 

‘But if she went to you and said she intended to take up the sword, would you have stopped her?’ 

‘I don’t see that I would have a right to. Owensel might have tried. He takes being head of the family very seriously. But good luck to him. Brynja has a tendency to get her own way. If Brynja asked my opinion I would give it her, but I wouldn’t think to stop her. Perhaps it’s different, since we are twins. Perhaps I would feel as you do, were she younger than me.’ 

Éomer picks at the pommel of his saddle. Across the fields comes the cry of a hawk. Éomer squints southward to search out the dark brown body flying against the pale blue. Similar colour to a certain oath-breaker’s eyes, Éomer thinks. Then he becomes annoyed with himself for the thought. 

An unwanted addition: Except, the sky is less watery. 

‘Would you like a truth, my lord?’ Gríma asks. ‘Or a passage through to another topic of conversation?’ 

‘Would you tell me the truth whether I wished to hear it or not?’ 

‘No, my lord. I would keep it to myself.’ 

‘No, no, go on. I’m curious.’

‘I believe your sister resented you, a little. Your freedom, your occupation, that you were Third Marshal and privileged with responsibilities and could make a mark on the world while she was relegated to stand on the side. Though she would always deny it.’ 

‘You had occasion to ask my sister if she resented her kin?’ 

‘It came up from time to time.’ 

Éomer mutters that this sounds dubious. It sounds more like something Gríma would ask in order to stir the family pot. Which was always his favourite past-time. 

‘She was always circumspect, my lord.’ 

‘She always told me she thought you a snake but I assumed she just meant your mannerisms.’ Gríma gives him a look of: _try harder_. ‘That said, she once told me that you had a habit of sounding wise when, in fact, all that could come from you is poison.’

‘I sounded wise? Huh.’ 

Éomer rolls his eyes. ‘So,’ he asks, ‘what advice did you proffer?’ 

‘I would never say I offered advice. Indeed, I wouldn’t dare presume. But, I do recall a conversation wherein I said that should a person’s wanting for something, let’s say an occupation or a title, become desolate and despairing it can breed resentment. I believe I went on about how it must be hard to be alone with a brother always otherwise occupied and an ailing uncle...’

Éomer says nothing into the pause Gríma provided for the expected commentary. 

‘The long and short of what I said, my lord, was that a life can shrink on itself. If you let it shrink for long enough, all that you will ever be, is the small, safe, inconsequential thing you allowed yourself to become. Your life, your options, no greater than a pinhead. And sure, there might be good and pure motives for such self-containment; responsibility to family, or a sense of obligation to a patron. But do such motives matter when, at the dusk of your life, all that is left of your soul is duty and expectation? It is you who must live with that shrunken ghost of what you once were. It is you who are the once wild thing that haunts the abandoned possibilities of your life.’

‘There is honour,’ Éomer counters. 

‘Lady Éowyn said the same,’ Gríma gives him a side-long look, ‘though she sounded less convinced than you.’ 

Uncertain of where he wishes to go next on the forever winding road that are conversations with Gríma, Éomer opts for a pause. To contemplate the horizon. And the interior of Gríma’s mind, which Éomer assumes to be not unlike their conversation. Complicated. Full of contradictions and tension. He imagines it as a long, winding trail through darkened woodlands, or the treacherous marshes in southern Éomarc. The ones where, should you misstep, you sink till water and mud and grass cover you entirely. Your body may be found hundreds of years from now, looking as if you just fell in and thought to take a bit of a rest. Except, you are dead and all your family are dead and there is no one to claim your body and give you a name. 

It occurs to Éomer that, between the two of them, it can be argued that Gríma knows Éowyn the better. A realization that results in some tensing of the jaw, some internal glowering, some heat of embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck. 

He wants to demand: _How is it you came to know all of this? What sorcery did you employ? What leechcraft was put in use?_ But sudden outbursts and accusations are not kingly and so, as he is trying hard to learn that strange and ephemeral art, he lets the anger pass. 

Once it does, there is a second thought: Well, Eomer was never around and, truthfully, didn’t know how to talk to her so never really tried. He made a decision and that choice resulted in her loneliness. And her anger. And her bitterness. 

There is sorcery and there is just being a member of the household and always around. And when you are around conversations happen. Meduseld leaks like a scuttled ship, anyway. There are few secrets in those walls, beautifully carved and painted. Lined with the tapestries of their history. The secrets that are maintained are the sort that people cannot put words to. 

In addition, Éomer is growing a little tired of enmity. He and Gríma have had three years of it; surely it can be put to bed. After all, Gríma did say to Éomer that he was willing to try and improve. One must give the man a chance. 

[Gríma, after Pelennore, in one of Minas Tirith’s thousands of courtyards: _I do promise, my lord, to attempt to make the morally correct choices for the foreseeable future._ To which Éomer replied, _So no promises on being a more pleasant individual?_

Gríma visibly despaired, _It’s going to be one or the other, my lord. Either I am nice or I am good. Pick one._

_Well, ultimately it’s my uncle you should be having this conversation with. But, if you seek my opinion, I will say that I’ve heard too many sweet voices saying evil things to trust niceness as a conveyer of goodness. So, I’d take you being prickly and difficult but good (more or less) over nice but untrustworthy. I believe it’d be an improvement over your being both unpleasant_ and _untrustworthy._

Gríma smiled his viperish smile, _Aw, and here I thought you enjoyed my company._

 _Your conversation from time to time,_ Éomer owned. _And our backgammon games. But you already know that. Overall, though? I think it will suffice to say that we are very different people and leave it at that._

_How tactfully put._

_I’ve been informed I need to improve. Kingliness doesn’t involve bluntness to the point of being rude. Apparently._

_No, my lord, that can lead to wars. Best we avoid such outcomes. Be pleasant and personable to all you meet, liberal handed and generous, but make sure you always carry a large stick._ ]

Feeling Gríma watching him, Éomer returns his attention to the conversation and hears the familiar: _I spoke out of turn, I apologize, my lord._

‘You really need to stop saying that.’ 

‘Which part?’ 

‘All of it.’ 

‘Very well, my lord. What would you prefer?’ 

The one downside of unpleasant but moral Gríma is that it means Éomer must deal with this quandary: Is Gríma being earnest, attempting to best please the future king, or is Gríma shit-disturbing? Impossible to tell. 

‘I only mean that there’s no need to keep thinking you’ve spoken out of turn. It’s exhausting to keep hearing it.’ 

Gríma hums something beneath his breath. Éomer waits but there is no follow up so he takes it to be an agreement. 

Since they are down the path of awkward and strange conversations, Éomer decides he may as well continue into the depths. He says with heavy suspicion: ‘You paid a good deal of attention to my sister. I know what it is men said about that.’ 

‘Men speak about all sorts of things, my lord.’ 

‘And Gandalf said much the same, after you left Meduseld,’ Éomer continues. He twists to look Gríma full in the face but the man won’t meet his eye. Gríma’s lips thin then disappear. Éomer marks this reaction, thinks there’s something in it but doesn’t know what. It is a nervous look, also a drawn and tired one.

‘I think I recall his exact words,’ Éomer says. ' _Éowyn is safe, now._ That is what Gandalf said after your departure.’

Gríma’s chin juts out and his face turns from whatever strange emotion he had been feeling to fury and disgust. 

‘Gandalf said that? Greyhame had the gall to suggest _what?_ Lathspell indeed!’ Gríma sneers as he launches into his views on the _loathsome_ wizard.

Gríma angry, _truly_ angry, is a rarity. He affects anger at times, when it suits him. But more often he will be annoyed or frustrated or put-out. But fury? Not usually in his emotional range. Éomer thinks it to be akin to watching a trembling lid atop a kettle of boiling water. Sure, it may be clamped down tightly, but water and heat are powerful. Eventually the lid will come undone. 

‘He is one for grand statements,’ Gríma seethes, voice raising. ‘Always pretending to know another’s business. Walks into a situation and acts as if he understands all the particular nuances and knows what is best for all involved. Worse still, declares he knows another’s motivations, their interests, wants, desires and fears. He is not all seeing though he damn well thinks he is.’ 

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ 

‘No, that is exactly what he does. He walks in and declares: _this is fact. This is what I see so it must be the truth. This person thinks that, and that person thinks this._ Does he inquire with anyone? Does he ask anyone their views? He swans into Meduseld, makes estimations based on information that may or may not be relevant, and declares them fact. Gods, if I had an ego bigger than all of Gondor and the kingdom of Numenor combined I’d do the same. Gandalf knows nothing. He has never known anything. You all chase around after him like dogs to their master. Do you wish to know how I came to seemingly understand your sister so well? It wasn’t by leechcraft or sorcery or whatever other nonsense you might think.’

Éomer opens his mouth to reply but Gríma ploughs forward without waiting. 

‘I do the same as Gandalf. Only, I don’t dress it up as some great wisdom or knowledge only wizards can access. _Look at me, I am the all knowing Gandalf. The wise Saruman._ Hardly. What they do is the same as what I do: pay attention to details, track patterns, make inferences, then throw a few out and see which ones stick.’ Gríma stops for a deep breath. He closes his eyes and exhales again. Then he glances at Éomer in some embarrassment. ‘My apologies, my lord. I didn’t mean to go on thus.’ 

‘Oh no,’ Éomer replies, smilingly. ‘Please, continue. Tell me how you really feel.’ 

Gríma purses his lips then returns to a more somber appearance. His voice drops back to its usual quiet cadence. ‘What I mean to say, in all of this, is that I paid no inappropriate attention to your sister. At least, that was never my intention. We would speak from time to time. Hard not to, as we were all a bit cooped up in Meduseld. You understand how it gets, don’t you, my lord? I always assumed it was why you would knock off as soon as you could, after visiting. Not that I would presume to know my lord’s motives —’ 

‘Didn’t you just tell me that presuming motives is _exactly_ what you do?’ 

Gríma gulps in a breath, holds it, then lets out a short, hoarse laugh. Éomer looks over and catches sight of a fleeting expression he has but rarely seen: honest, open amusement. It is almost a pleasant sight. Gríma’s laughter is more often mocking. His amusement, sneering. 

Éomer wonders how he can make it occur again. Then thinks: _no, gods no._ Those thoughts are only supposed to happen in firelight. Not in the middle of the day after an exhausting conversation. 

‘Very true,’ Gríma is agreeing. Then, somber again, ‘I will admit I would perhaps ask questions that were not always appropriate.’ 

This immediately gets Éomer’s back up. All thoughts slide out of his head as he asks: ‘Such as?’ 

‘Um, do you resent your uncle and your brother? How does it feel to have no close friends or relatives save for an ailing uncle? If you were to die tomorrow would you feel content with the legacy you are leaving behind? What do you value most in a potential husband? I believe I particularly asked after the importance of age, intelligence, soldierliness, and general nature.’

‘Uhuh.’ 

Gríma quickly continues: ‘How do you feel about your marriage being used as a puzzle piece in the greater political game? What are your thoughts on Gondor? What are your views on your cousin’s ability to lead the country when your uncle inevitably dies? Do you believe humans are inherently good or evil and does this view change based on whether we are discussing it at an individual level or in large groups? Are honour and duty really that important?’ 

Éomer’s first thought: This is possibly the _most_ Gríma list of questions he has ever heard.

His second thought: Well, this line of questioning does explain a lot. 

‘Those are all less subtle than I would expect from you. Also, were you trying to rope her into committing treason? Or thinking treasonous thoughts?’ 

‘I perhaps phrased them differently. I did aim for delicacy. Whether I achieved it is not something I can vouch for. And, theoretically, several of those questions would require treasonous thought by their very nature. That is, of course, if one wishes to catalogue thinking as an act of treason. Surely a man’s mind is his haven? Thought counts for nothing.’ A beat. ‘Has Lady Éowyn said anything with regards to, um —’ He falters. 

‘No,’ Éomer shrugs. ‘Not to me at least. But as you know, we aren’t exactly one another’s confidants. All she ever said to me was that you are a shivery sort of person, that you make her uncomfortable due to the twin reasons of knowing too much about people and a tendency to stare as if you’re picking a person’s soul apart, penchant for appearing out of thin air when people think they are alone, and that you have a habit of speaking words that sound wise but probably aren’t. Granted, that list of questions you grilled her with probably didn’t help.’

‘I never grilled her, my lord.’ 

‘You do see how it could come across, though, can’t you? Why Gandalf, and others, would make assumptions?’ 

A hum as Gríma produces the apple Éomer gave him and takes a bite. He chews thoughtfully. ‘Did you, my lord?’ 

‘Make assumptions? Yes. Of course.’ 

Another hum. Gríma takes a second bite. Éomer watches the apple slowly turn in his hand. 

‘I had wondered,’ Gríma says. 

‘I was under the impression that for the last few years you cared little for the opinions of those of us at Meduseld.’ 

Gríma faces him, his brow furrowed, then a slow, serpentine smile. Éomer has absolutely no idea how to interpret this so doesn’t. 

‘So, did you care?’ Eomer asks. 

‘No,’ said very loftily. ‘I have never much cared for the opinions of others. If I did, it would be a paralyzing experience. I move through the world differently than you, my lord. The world moves around most Éothéod in a way that it does not move around me. Though Edoras is generally better than other places. Big city, lots of to and fro with other people.’ 

‘Right.’ Éomer awkwardly eyes Gríma who shrugs dispassionately. 

Wind kicks up, dances flakes of snow around in whorls. They dust across Éomer’s face. He inhales the sharp, clean scent. The sun has plucked itself up enough to make the land glint. Winter turns the world into the finest laid jewelry where every piece of land, every tree and hillock and dale and stream and river are well cut, precious stones. 

They are making slow progress towards Armagh, one of the larger towns in the north. The largest being Sechnail, the seat of the Thane of the Wold, then there’s Imair, Alstadt, and Armagh. 

Gríma takes another bite of the apple. Then, in a contemplative manner, he says, ‘To return to our initial conversation about siblings and their life decisions, in my experience, people resent being constrained. Even if it is done for their own good. Siblings being no different.’ 

‘What? You don’t manipulate yours into whatever your latest scheme is?’ Éomer stops. Briefly shuts his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.’

‘Manipulation is different from control, my lord. Owensel manipulated me into all sorts when we were children. Though, I suspect he would say he _cajoled_ me. But wanting something and being told that you must remain confined to a certain position and role is hard enough to bear. But to be told it is done out of love? That it is in your best interest?’ 

‘I suppose. But she could have died.’ 

‘That’s her decision, my lord.’ Gríma takes another bite. Turns the apple around. Éomer hasn’t looked away and Gríma keeps shooting him fleeting, questioning glances. There is the keenest sense that Éomer has been here before. Only, not quite.

‘What are you saying?’ 

‘Nothing, my lord. I’m saying nothing.’ 

‘You’re absolutely saying something. You have kennings nested inside kennings. Meanings within meanings.’ 

‘Do I?’ Feigned innocence. 

‘Absolutely. Háma once said that a single line from you was, in reality, an entire stanza.’ 

Gríma goes silent and finishes his apple with an air of distraction. Éomer sighs, pushes hair out of his face and thinks he could have phrased that better. 

But the scene is over. Their brief moment of honest conversation, gone. The older man has turtled, how he does when he feels he has shown too much of himself. The riding cloak hunches up, he sinks inward, becomes small. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,  
> don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty  
> of lives and whole towns destroyed or about  
> to be. We are not wise, and not very often  
> kind. And much can never be redeemed.  
> Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this  
> is its way of fighting back, that sometimes  
> something happens better than all the riches  
> or power in the world. It could be anything,  
> but very likely you notice it in the instant  
> when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the  
> case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid  
> of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.  
> \-- Mary Oliver


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: the end contains some light animal sacrifice - nothing too explicit but thought I'd give a heads up.

Armagh is situated on a small branch of the River Limlight that cuts south into hills and dales of the Wold before eventually disappearing beneath ground sometime before it enters the sharp cliffs and hills of the northernmost reaches of the western side of Emyn Muil. Between Bemirve, the previous village they visited, and Armagh lay a sacred grove of ash and birch which houses disir, spirits of the dead, and wights of the land. The trees stretch up against the skyline, a density of shadowed limbs - none of them bare though it be late December. 

‘We should stop for an offering,’ Éomer indicates the clutch of trees ahead, ‘it’d be rude to pass without making one and this isn’t a sacred space you pretend not to see. It makes the spirits angry.’ 

‘Do we have anything?’ 

Éomer mutely looks at Gríma then the bow that is tucked alongside his saddle. Gríma mutters that he will do it when they get closer, since they’ll have to stop at the Springs of Milandir, anyway, if they’re making an offering. They can rest there while he prowls off in search of something suitable for the dead. 

The Springs of Milandir always put Éomer on edge for they’re untouched by the world around them in a way that has never felt entirely natural. While the ever-green of the grove speaks to unseen forces preserving what should fall and fade then be reborn, the springs carry a heaviness. Their waters are always warm, no matter the season, and grass and moss never fade. It could be the coldest, darkest winter where breathing makes a man’s lungs hurt and the hairs of your nose freeze on contact with their air outside, but the grass here will remain uncovered and as rich as deep summer. 

Then, then there is the strange smell of decay that hangs around, filtering through the constantly blooming vegetation. 

The springs consist of three pools surrounded by a large granite shelf that provides some protection from the elements. The pools themselves run east to west with rocks of rust red, sulfuric yellow, the green of old copper. They are at once beautiful and ominous. 

Passing through the narrow entrance of the ringed-shelf Éomer suddenly feels watched. Not the watched of being hunted, but the watched of walking into a tavern in a town where no one knows you. Everyone has twisted about on their benches to stare. Beside him, Gríma sniffs and looks about with interest, his gaze lingering on certain spots longer than others. 

That there are spirits in this place Éomer does not doubt. If they are best pleased with people using it to bathe before making an offering that isn’t to them, that is less certain. 

‘Be quick about it,’ Éomer says, watching Gríma shoulder his bow. ‘We shouldn’t linger.’

‘I shall endeavour to best please you, my lord. But I don’t know if the hares will.’ 

The three pools are rock lined and of varying depths with the eastwardly one being the deepest, the middle the most shallow - no more than knee deep - and the westerly between the two extremes. It has been years since Éomer passed through Milandir and the last time he was here, it was with his eored. He had felt unsettled at the time, now, alone, the feeling increases tenfold. 

Deciding he needs to occupy himself, Éomer inspects the pools to make sure no animals or unwanted things are lurking amongst their rocks then he pokes around the circle before coming to a rest back with the horses. Taking out some kindling he sets about starting a small fire, more for something to do than an actual need for warmth. The air of this strange circle is warm and humid. Coming through the narrow entrance of granite is like stepping from winter into early spring. 

‘We mean no disrespect, I promise,’ Éomer says aloud. No reply, save the bubbling of the springs. Which he will have to enter at some point. The landwights and dísir of the grove of ash are known to be particular about the state of cleanliness of those who seek to make an offering.

‘I’m going for a dip,’ he announces. It never hurts, he reasons, to let the spirits know what you’re up to. Milandir may not be the grove, but Éomer wonders if it isn’t the more sacred of the two spaces. It certainly is the more uncomfortable of them.

Quickly stripping, he sets his clothes on a rock near enough to reach with ease then slides into the easterly pool. Resting against the side, and seated on an underwater ledge, he dangles feet over the deep blue depth that stretches downward. The colour shifts from sapphire to the dark of nighttime sky. 

A deep breath. Éomer closes his eyes for a brief moment and feels himself to begin to relax. Sinking so his shoulders are covered Éomer lets his mind drift. There is the idle thought that perhaps the water protects a person from whatever baleful eyes keep watch over the springs. It would explain why he feels less watched in here than by the fire. 

He taps the top of the water causing ripples to span out. Was it wise to make Gríma go off into the wilds of Éomarc to fetch an offering? Maybe not. Not that Éomer fears the man will run away, it’s more, will he be able to find his way back? 

Éomer ponders this then thinks, Yes, he will be fine. The grove is a large enough landmark as is the rock shelf that surrounds the springs. He should be fine. 

Wild animals? It is not a lean year, Éomer assumes the wolves are well fed. 

And Gríma, being both a coward and a generally intelligent person, won’t go very far, anyway. 

It will be a learning experience, he determines. Théoden has been very keen on everyone having learning experiences, lately. 

Sucking in a breath Éomer dips under. Beneath water, his heartbeat reverberates upward from his chest. He hears within himself and outside himself. Somewhere below him and far away, a rush of water. It comes from deep beneath ground, wherever the dark blue depth takes itself off it. 

He comes up for air, pushing back his hair and rubbing his eyes. Resting his head on the rocky edge Éomer looks skyward to watch thin clouds move swiftly south. They are stretched out, cotton pulled from a distaff and parted from itself. Perhaps they are in for a storm, he thinks. That would be just their luck. And it would make sense for the wind and those gauzy clouds that could be heralds of heavier things to come. Storms, in winter months, tend to descend down upon Éomarc from over the Misty Mountains and south through Rhovanion. 

Water laps against his cheek. Éomer’s mind, still drifting, inevitably butts up against the background noise that has been occupying his head these past weeks (if not a little longer, but he refuses to be that honest with himself): the Noticing of Gríma. He may be a man who has preferences for partners, generally women, that Éothain always tactfully describes as  _ unique _ and  _ striking _ , but this is a bit much. 

There is also the ragr part of it, although Éomer doesn’t pay the notion too much mind. Sure, there are effeminate men who may subject themselves to other men in sexual affairs as well as more important ones: financial, political, spiritual, familial. But Éomer always assumed that being ragr was a state of existence inhabited by men who weren’t him. Or those who he had run about with, upon the rare occasion. 

And yes, it’s all layered and complex. He understands how it can be thought that if one is ragr, effeminate, then one lacks fortitude and strength of character which can lead to cowardice and being cowardly lacks dignity and all of this is to be unmanly which upsets the moral expectations of behavior of an upright Éothéod man. But it doesn’t work out logically, for him. 

A man may subject himself to another man, but still exhibit and perform all qualities, obligations, and expectations of an Éothéod man. It does not lead to a desertion of duty to family and people. A person can hold more than one truth inside them. 

But this is all irrelevant. Other men are ragr. Not him. 

He thinks that he needs to get this whole situation sorted. What is the root of the sudden Noticing of Gríma? Nothing deep or meaningful. No. He determines that the situation is born out of boredom, close proximity, and Éomer feeling a bit lonely and a bit randy. 

Yes, he thinks, this sudden heat resting like a shaken ale bottle ready to burst in the pit of his stomach, the base of his spine — nothing more than a situational problem. It will pass once he is back in Edoras. This curling warmth that unfurls within whenever he thinks passing thoughts: what if he put his hand under Gríma’s tunic; what if he kissed the disastrous man; what if he pushed his tongue into the other man’s mouth as Gríma wrapped his legs around Éomer’s waist; what if they rolled about in bed in a nameless tavern in a nameless village —

His lingering looks at those pretty hands, those large, uncomfortable, deep-set eyes that are a watery, pale blue to the point of vanishment, the cheekbones that could slice a man open. 

All of his watching, all of his moments of  _ huh, would it be so terrible?  _ It is all due to boredom, proximity, and not having anyone to hand in the last year and a half. 

And, Gríma is an interesting person. If in a prickly, ominous, and awkward sort of way. He knows many strange things, the origins of which being something Éomer has never questioned. Mostly because he doesn’t wish to know the hows and wherefores of Gríma’s knowledge acquisition. Such as the time Gríma opined:  _ When you burn a human body sometimes they sit up in the flames though they’re a corpse. It’s to do with muscles, I’m fairly certain, but do not take me at my word on this. I’ve not had cause to study it, but I believe our flesh sort of, snaps us upward.  _ He did a hand motion of a body jerking itself straight up from horizontal in case Éomer hadn’t fully appreciated the visual of the situation. 

Now that he has this settled, Éomer lands on the next question: is he to do anything about it? 

No, he quickly determines, he won’t. Because that would be supremely stupid, even for him. There are two main points for not doing anything about it, he firmly tells himself. And they’re very good points, he reiterates. 

Point the first: Gríma is an oath-breaking, traitorous, son-of-a-bitch who cheats at cards. He is a coward who sold himself for an indeterminate amount of money and lacks honour. He betrayed Théoden, who trusted him and raised him up through the ranks. In summary: cannot be trusted, even though he has said that he is going to attempt an approximation of goodness. 

Point the second: If, gods help him, something happened between them and it was found out — disaster. Gríma has nothing to lose. Éomer, though? How would that look? him shagging the man who was tied up in the assassination of Théodred. Éomer, some would say (indeed, have said aloud, in the case of Saruman), did very well out of this whole war and treason situation. Heir to the throne, sister married to one of the most powerful men in Gondor… 

He can see where minds would go and he cannot blame them. 

And, relatedly, it would dishonour Théodred’s memory. A flash of guilt cuts through his stomach that this is the last thing he thought of. 

Anyway, would Gríma even be inclined to accept such a proposition? Éomer isn’t entirely sure. Therefore, there is the possibility that if he were mad enough to make an offer, it might not lead to anything save Gríma suddenly having some very useful information about him that could be leveraged in future situations.

Well, Éomer sighs, that’s all of that settled. 

Deciding he had been in the springs for long enough, Éomer hoists himself up and out to rest on cold rock. Pulling his outer riding cloak over he uses a bottom portion as a makeshift towel and dries himself as quickly as possible. The air may be warmer in this place than outside the circle, but it is still nippy enough when wet.

In the midst of redressing the horses make small knickers of greeting. Which means Gríma is back because it is the sound they make when they know the person and expect food. Turning around Éomer catches sight of Gríma who, meeting Éomer’s eyes colours, about faces and stalks towards the fire declaring over his shoulder that he got the offering plus something for themselves. The lord can take his pick on what is for eating. 

Éomer stares after the man, aware of a heat that is gathering into a spark that rests at the base of his spine. There is also the warmth that spills from chest into stomach. All thoughts that follow are pushed down and away. Quickly, he tugs his shift over his head, then winter tunic, and belts them off. Wrapping his coat about himself he wanders over to the fire where a brace of hares and a rather impressive partridge sit, awaiting judgement Gríma, having added wood to the blaze, continues to prod at it. 

‘I think the hares should go to the wights and the dead,’ Éomer says, dropping to the ground. ‘We can eat the bird. Good work, by the way.’ 

Gríma jerks his head in acknowledgement. Neither look at the other. 

‘I’ll take care of the plucking if you want a wash. The temperature isn’t bad,’ Éomer waves at the springs. The steam lazily drifting upward on cool air. Gríma dutifully nods then hurries off. 

Taking up the partridge Éomer sets about plucking the bird and not analyzing the shuddering heat that remains in his stomach, his back, his chest. It leaps up when he hears the sound of Gríma entering the water. He doesn’t think about what that necessarily means, namely that should he look around the horses and over to the springs he would find the man naked. 

But he’s not thinking about that. Nor is he thinking about what they could do, if both were so inclined. 

Because he’s already sorted this out for himself. 

No, Éomer is thinking about the dead partridge he is now skinning, having finished the plucking. 

And he is thinking about the offering they are to do once they eat. He is not thinking about Gríma’s hands. Nor is he thinking about Gríma’s fleeting expression, when he was truly amused and how it softened him for a brief, pleasant moment. He isn’t pondering the sound of Gríma evidently getting out of the springs. The hushed muttering of:  _ fuck it’s cold, stupid fucking winter, too godsdamn cold. _ The shift of fabric as he hurriedly dresses. 

Éomer licks his lips and thinks about none of it. 

He thinks about dead birds and how some consider them to be omens, but only when they drop out of the sky or slam into a door or fly through a window or a roof-top smoke vent, the open ones that face the heavens, rather than the ones that are slats in gables. He thinks about augur readings and the last ones he participated in said that there is change coming. But they always say change is coming because change is the immutable fact of the world. An irony he toys with in his head. 

Gríma reappears by the fire as Éomer draws the partridge, keeping aside the heart, liver and gizzards. The bird is then worked onto a make-shift spit and set over the fire while the innards are cooked on a flat rock kept heated on the coals. 

‘It’s been a while since I’ve been through here,’ Gríma says, watching the food cook. ‘How do you leave the offerings?’ 

‘Untouched.’ 

‘Right.’ Gríma plucks at sleeve hems. ‘I never got used to the southern tendency to leave the bodies hanging from the trees.’

‘The spirits and gods like a person to know they are in a sacred and fearsome place.’ 

‘I understand the reasoning, and it makes sense. It’s just — different, shall we say. Were you never scared as a child?’ 

Éomer shakes his head. No, why should he be? He respects the gods and, while he is happy for them to continue not paying any attention to him, he is not afraid of them. ‘Granted, I’ve never had a run in with an old god.’ 

‘Yes, well, I suspect he was an exception to how they usually behave,’ Gríma stiffly replies. ‘Desperation to escape his chains and all that.’ 

‘Why should he be an exception? Why should we think to know how the gods would behave? They sink continents and make life out of dust.’ 

‘I suppose.’ 

Éomer rotates the bird and moves around the frying morsels. The smell is pleasant, compared to the meaty, rotten egg of the springs. Gríma has shifted his eyes from the fire to Éomer and he watches with steady interest. Éomer waits, for he knows a question is being formulated. Also, if he were to speak, or acknowledge that he is aware of Gríma’s gaze, it will be removed and returned to the ground or the sky or the horses or the horizon — what best pleases the man to stare at when he doesn’t want to look Éomer in the eye. 

‘Did your father take you hunting?’ Gríma asks. ‘Or did he die before he had the chance?’ 

‘He took me but a handful of times. He had plans for when I turned thirteen, to blood me in, but,’ Éomer shrugs. ‘He wasn’t around and the day passed and a distant cousin, Hallbjorn, took me with him for the hunt.’ 

‘Wasn’t around as in absent or wasn’t around as in dead?’ 

Éomer’s lips curl. ‘You really choose your moments to embrace Éothéod bluntness. Wasn’t around as in absent. He died between my thirteenth and fourteenth year.’ 

‘My apologies, my lord.’ 

‘For being blunt or for my father being dead?’ 

Gríma’s turn to curl his mouth into something approximating a smile. ‘Both, I suppose.’ 

‘I’ll not take it for either. You’re rarely blunt, so every occurrence could constitute a minor blessing. And my father’s death is no one’s fault but his own.’ Abruptly Éomer stops. Because there is a soft breeze of keen plains air and it reminds him of Éomund holding him by the arms, firmly, and looking him in the eye saying,  _ I will be home but I must see to some orc troubles in the east. You’re the man in charge now. I’m trusting you to keep everyone safe.  _

Then he left. Walked out through those big, thick doors of Aldburg’s mead hall called Lyernsige, with his eored around him wearing their shining armour, holding their bright lances, their helmets and hauberks glinting. Éomund left and came home no more. 

Then Théodwyne died. 

Then he and Éowyn went to live with their uncle. And then Théodred died. And then Háma died. Then his uncle almost died. Then his sister almost died — 

The partridge is cooked. 

Éomer blinks as Gríma pulls it off the fire and divides portions saying, ‘You can have the gizzards if you want.’ 

Éomer frowns. Does Gríma not want them? Oh, Gríma likes them very well, but if Éomer wants them… It occurs to Éomer that this could be considered an attempt at a kindness and so he accepts it, more for Gríma’s sake than himself. 

They eat in peace. 

The ash and birches of the sacred grove sit clustered close together. Their bodies warped and cantankerous with age, save for the birch who stand tall and silvery. Within the circle there is little enough sunlight in the height of summer, let alone on a winter day, so the offering stone seated on a small rise in the centre is cast in shadows.

The horses are left outside the grove for they have not been cleaned with the spring water therefore ought not to enter. Walking up to the altar Éomer takes the hares, dedicates them to the landwights and the spirits of the dead, then steps away. 

Not taking his eyes from the stone, he waits. 

A sound of hollow, wooden instruments clinking against each other. A breath against the back of his neck. Éomer does not look behind him. At the evident arrival of the wights and spirits, he takes a second step backwards and another and another until he is off the incline. Not once does he look behind him, only stopping when he comes in line with Gríma. 

Fingers touch his cheek, his nose, his brow, but there is no corporeal form to cause such a sensation. Whispers emanate from the tree line. Something brushes by, then another. Upon the altar the dead hares shudder then they are shredded by unseen forces. Gríma sucks in a breath as Éomer lets out a sharp exhale. 

The bones of the hares suspend in the air for nine beats of the heart then drop. Devoid of flesh they roll off the stone into the grass. The skins of the hare have disappeared upward into the trees. The flesh and sinew, presumably consumed. 

Bowing low, Éomer and Gríma walk backwards out of the grove. Silently mount their horses and do not look over their shoulders. 

‘My father always said you should never turn your back on a god or a wight,’ Gríma says. Snow begins, soft, wet flakes smack their faces and drape across their hair. ‘You never know what they are capable of.’ 


	3. Chapter 3

Éomer had intentions of making it to Armagh by nightfall but the weather is against them for dark clouds gather and swoop in from the north bringing light snow, strong wind, and dipping temperatures. It is but minutes and the relative mildness of the day has vanished; the sun might as well not exist in the storm tossed sky. 

‘We should think about shelter,’ Gríma says as a gale blows against them, strong enough to cause the horses to shift their course. ‘I don’t like the prospect of going the rest of the way in this weather. And it’ll be nightfall soon.’ 

‘If it isn’t already,’ Éomer replies. He has given up on his hood as the wind keeps ripping it back. Stray fly-aways of hair that have escaped from clip and string flap about the edges of his vision. ‘There’s a herding hut somewhere along here. I remember marking it on my last visit to Armagh. We should be nearby, it’ll be on the easterly side of the road.’ 

Time passes. A quarter of a candle’s worth, perhaps. Long enough that Éomer worries about his knees and fingers and the tips of his ears. He begins to fear that they’ve missed it when Gríma suddenly smacks his arm and points. There, between the road and the stream, lies a building. Thank the sweet gods and landwights, Éomer thinks. They’re not going to be forced to go on to Armagh, possibly losing a toe or finger along the way.

‘Never thought I would be as thankful for herdsmen and shepherds as I am right now,’ Gríma says as they lead their horses inside. ‘Naturally I recognize their invaluable contribution to Éomarc’s economy, and society as a whole, part of the backbone I would argue, but I never thought to myself: Shepherds, herdsmen, thank the gods you exist and like to build shelters along your yearly route.’ 

Pulling off saddle and bags, Éomer watches as Fyrfot, making content horse noises, ducks his head to begin nibbling feed left on the ground. Gently raising the horse’s head back up, he removes the bridle only half-listening as Gríma goes on about the history of early Éothéod tribes and their temporary housing practices. Brushing Fyrfot down Éomer whispers: ‘I didn’t ask for the history lesson, you know. Don’t blame me.’ Fyrfot snorts with impatience at being denied his supper. Éomer makes a face which his horse does not appear to appreciate.

The herdsmen’s shelter is about three horses in length, two wide, and in some state of disrepair. Therefore, the main door offers feeble protection from the cold wind. Éomer blocks off what openings he can with spare straw and leftover tarpaulin before positioning Fyrot and Stigr so they provide some manner of barrier. 

Gríma, ‘Stigr gets cold easily. He shouldn't’ be so close to the door.’ 

Éomer, ‘Don't project your own dislike of winter onto your horse.’ 

Gríma, ‘I’m not.’ 

Unearthing a blanket from what clearly is supposed to be a storage room, Éomer drapes it over Stigr asking, ‘Will that suffice?’ Gríma hems and haws for several minutes during which Éomer decides to leave him to it and scope out the rest of the building.

Mimicking the typical longhouses of Éomarc, it is long, with a peaked roof supported by carved and painted wooden beams and covered with thatching. In the middle is a small, central fire pit over which could hang a cauldron or spit, save there is little here to cook with let alone to begin a fire. Plenty of fodder but no proper wood. 

‘Can you still do the fire trick?’ Éomer asks, wiggling his fingers. Gríma, petting Stigr while whispering to him, does not deign to answer. Éomer assumes this to be a yes. 

There is a large pile of hay piled against one side of the building which normally would, if this were a house and not a make-shift shelter, have a wide, long bench to serve as seating, working space and bed. Éomer roots around in the hay in order to chase out the resident rodents. Determining that it is sufficient for sleeping purposes, he declares that it will have to do for bedding since there is nowhere else that looks both reasonably comfortable and warm enough so they keep all their limbs. That they will be sharing Éomer assumes to be obvious therefore not worthy of commenting on. And, also obviously, it is something he isn’t thinking about.

Having decided that Stigr is comfortable enough for the night, Gríma stands wearing grumpy features, with shoulders hunched and arms folded with hands tucked into his arm pits. Catching Éomer’s eye he snaps: ‘My hands are cold.’ 

‘We could try for a fire.’ 

‘And die.’ 

‘That’s a dramatic statement.’ 

Gríma frees a hand to motion to the hay, the dry beams, the lack of proper flagstones around the pit. ‘Death.’ 

Éomer huffs, ‘A very small fire won’t cause a problem.’ 

‘Dying is problematic.’ 

Éomer rolls his eyes and gathers up potential kindling to place in the firepit at the end furthest away from their hay stack. He then clears debris from the area saying, ‘It won’t last long, for we have no logs, but it might help with the cold. My hands are frozen as much as yours are and I wouldn’t mind sloughing off the metaphorical ice.’ 

Settling down beside Éomer, Gríma plucks up several strands of straw, holds them a few inches out, then does something with the air Éomer can’t explain. The straw catches alight. 

‘Is it always like that?’ Éomer asks as Gríma blows on their meagre fire to encourage it. ‘When you do your galdorcræft.’ 

‘How do you mean, my lord?’ 

‘The air,’ Éomer waves. ‘It goes sort of thick, I don’t know how best to explain — it becomes tense. How it can feel before a lightning storm in summer. And gauzy. But it happens so quickly it’s easy to miss.’ 

Gríma’s brows lift as he regards Éomer. Éomer meets his eyes for a long moment before dropping his gaze to the flames. Slowly, a low note is hummed as Gríma stands and goes to rummage for additional fuel. 

‘I don’t remember it happening when you were, ah,’ Éomer pauses to grope for the word. ‘Whatever it was you did to my uncle.’ He watches as Gríma picks up an old stool and walks back with it. Silently he holds it out to Éomer who takes it in confusion. 

‘Break it, we can use it as wood.’ 

‘Ah.’ 

‘And you never saw me bind your uncle.’ 

‘Of course I did, everyone did.’ 

‘I assume you mean you saw his appearance. That was the effect, but not the act itself. It was done with candles.’ 

Éomer hazards a guess: ‘Did you inscribe them?’ 

‘Blew them out.’ 

‘What?’ 

Gríma's snakey smile. ‘You speak over the smoke. But it’s the words that matter.’ 

‘Could I do it, hypothetically? Or would I need to fetch that old god of yours?’ 

Another silence of consideration. Perhaps, Gríma says. Perhaps Éomer could, but he wouldn’t know for certain unless the lord tried it. Which is something Éomer has little interest in. 

Breaking apart the stool and handing the pieces to Gríma, Éomer declares: ‘I doubt I could. Because it’s _magic_ ,’ he uses the Westron word. ‘And humans do not have it, save the odd exception.’ 

‘There are things we can do without the interference of strange beings,’ Gríma replies. The pile of wood sits between them in a neat stack. ‘My mother can horse-whisper. They listen to her and do as she bids them.’ 

Huh, Éomer thinks, he did not believe either of Gríma’s parents to still be alive. She would be quite old. Perhaps seventy, maybe more. If Gríma and his sister are the youngest and there were children between her first and them. 

‘Then there’s what the seers and auger readers do,’ Gríma continues, delicately adding a piece of the stool to the fire. Dipping out of Éorléden Gríma says in Westron: _‘That’s a sort-of magic. Maybe not what wizards and elves are capable of, but it’s something.’_

 _‘But that’s soothing,’_ Éomer replies, matching the language switch. _‘I count that as different. Anyone can learn that.’_

‘And what seiðr-workers do,’ Gríma returns to Éorléden. ‘That is more in line with what people think when they say _magic._ ’ Chewing this over, he plays with his sleeves then seemingly comes to agree with himself. ‘Yes, I would say seiðr is the closest approximation to what someone like Gandalf or Saruman do. Well, aspects of it. Gandalf can do quite a bit more, and so could Saruman at the height of his power.’ 

Turning this over, Éomer pulls his bags over and takes out provisions for supper. There is nothing terribly exciting on offer and he is pleased they managed to have the partridge earlier for some diversity in the traveling diet. 

A thought occurs as he holds out the hard tack saying: pick one. ‘Do you know, I think we’re going about this wrong.’ 

‘How do you mean, my lord?’ 

‘You are speaking of galdorcræft, seiðr, spá, spellcræft, tröllcræft, which I feel are different than when someone uses the Westron word _magic_. I think it’s two different systems of understanding and what you do,’ he wiggles his fingers, only because it annoys Gríma, ‘falls into both categories.’ 

‘That’s a fair point.’ 

‘I can theoretically learn much of what you have listed, but I cannot learn what you, specifically, do.’ 

Gríma silently eats, chewing slowly and in evident contemplation. As he does his eyes flick between Éomer and some far-off spot over Éomer’s left shoulder. Outside, the wind hurls itself against the walls and roof. It whistles through cracks. The building is not well maintained, and occasional draughts brush against them. 

But the fire is something and, so far, has not led to their death. Which Éomer thinks to point out before deciding against it. They are having something like a normal conversation, he does not wish to ruin it. 

‘So,’ Éomer says when the silence becomes too awkward to bear. ‘Your mother can horse-whisper.’ 

‘It was how she met my father, apparently.’ 

‘That’s rather romantic.’ 

‘Yes,’ Gríma replies. ‘I suppose.’ 

‘I have a cousin who can do that. I liked watching him work when I was younger, it was always interesting.’ 

Gríma hums a tune of interest so Éomer leans back on both hands and explains Ranoulf and Ranoulf’s penchant for walking off with other people’s horses. To which Gríma replied, ‘So when you said: _watching him work_ what you meant was: _watching him steal other people’s horses._ ’ 

‘I've never seen him do it. I’d've stopped him, if I had. But I did accidentally purchase a stolen horse from him once.’ 

And ah — there it is, that rare and lovely thing: Gríma’s fleeting expression of open, honest amusement. Éomer feels shockingly warm, considering the storm. Smiling he says, ‘Here, let me tell you about the time he roped me into gambling on a terribly mismatched cock fight. I feel like this is something that would happen to you.’

‘Oh dear, what you must think of me.’ 

‘Except you’re Ranoulf in this situation.’ 

Gríma laughs. Éomer grins. Flames dances. 

Night inevitably brings about the situation Éomer has spent the last few hours not thinking about. The fire is tamped down, the wind still howls, the horses sigh. Éomer and Gríma are ensconced in a partial cave formed with hay and blankets. Their cloaks are also bundled about them in a shared effort to keep the warmth in.

Which means Éomer can feel Gríma's body. Their shoulders are pressed together. Gríma’s leg is against his leg, their hips touch, every shift and movement makes for greater awareness of the other. 

‘Stop wiggling,’ Éomer hisses. 

‘I’m not,’ the petulant reply. 

‘Yes, you are.’ 

‘The straw itches and it’s poking my cheek.’ 

‘You’re fine.’ 

Gríma doesn’t move for a moment then shifts again with a quiet comment: ‘Gods, you’re a walking brazier.’ 

‘And you are my own personal sheet of ice.’ 

‘Hey--’ Gríma starts. 

‘Is for horses,’ Éomer interrupts. 

Gríma gawps for a second then scoffs _that was terrible_ before burrowing into the straw, tucking hands under his arms again. He mutters beneath his breath about Éomer’s penchant for terrible word-play.

Éomer stares up into the rafters. Boards have been laid between the beams to provide extra storage off the ground and he spies several bags of what he suspects to be oats and barley. He ponders the harvest in great detail until Gríma, at last, settles. The quiet litany of complaints, however, continues. He has moved on from Éomer’s apparently terrible sense of humour to his overall dissatisfaction with the situation. 

‘Have you tried being quiet?’ Éomer asks, closing his eyes. He tells himself that he is not thinking about anything. Definitely not the body pressed up against his; how he can feel Gríma breathing. He hates that traveling is a necessarily intimate experience. You learn how a person sleeps; how they eat when not at a formal table; how they hold themselves. 

‘I’m cold,’ a low whine. 

‘Close your eyes and think about home,’ 

‘Home has a fire. And walls that do not allow in three hundred gales of winter wind. And proper meals with actual taste. And wine. And mead. And braziers. And warmer blankets.’

Éomer makes a hushing sound. Gríma seemingly acquiesces for the dramatic complaints cease. Then, after an indeterminate amount of time, his breath evens out. Éomer sighs, opens his eyes and recommences staring at the ceiling. 

He reaffirms his decision that this is going nowhere. Because it can’t go anywhere. It is a sheer impossibility. Like climbing to the top of Caradhras, foolhardy to the point of stupidity. To the point of deep, unalterable consequences. 

It is as he said earlier, he is going to be king. King’s cannot afford selfishness. All their actions ripple outward and cause the rise or fall of their people. Théoden has told him many a time since March: _No longer are you making decisions for yourself, you are now making decisions for millions._

A cruel thought: A pity Théoden did not hammer that into Théodred’s head. Then none of them would be here. It is unworthy of him, but it remains embedded in Éomer’s mind regardless.

He does not want this. He wishes Théodred were still alive. He wishes Saruman had never set his sights on Éomarc. He wishes Gondor had not gifted the white wizard the keys to Orthanc. He wishes his sister were still in Edoras. For all their distance, their differences, he still misses her. And he wants to fix what he has put asunder but he can’t do that if she’s off in Gondor doing whatever it is noble ladies do in Gondor. 

Probably much the same as they do in Éomarc. 

Which necessitates the question: Is she happy? 

If she were not happy with that lot while in Éomarc then she surely isn’t happy with it in Gondor. These thoughts rest heavy as loadstones in his chest making him anxious. 

He does not doubt that she loves Faramir. Nor does he doubt that Faramir loves her. But will she be happy being relegated to the wife of the younger brother of the Steward? Or will her world shrink again? Bowers closing in; a hutch to trammel some wild thing in. 

This is what happens, Éomer sighs, when he has too many conversations with Gríma. The words seep in and undermine foundations of things once thought to be certain. Even unintentionally, for Éomer does not think Gríma meant ill when he told Éomer his speculations on what was happening in Éowyn’s head. They still have a way of curling through a person’s mind; reforming how memories are shaped, offering new interpretations to old meanings.

Gríma rolls over and shoves hands against Éomer’s side. Being that they are around the same height, this results in Éomer feeling warm breath ghosting against his neck. He inhales, holds it, exhales. 

Gríma is an oath-breaker, Éomer reminds himself. He betrayed their people. Bewitched his uncle. Harassed his sister with the world’s most obnoxious questions. Weakened Éomarc’s governance. Almost ruined the House of Eorl. 

Cheats at cards. He may say it’s only a matter of card counting but Éomer is unconvinced. 

Gríma might be attempting an approximation of goodness, but that doesn’t mean he is _entirely_ trustworthy. Gríma, after all, puts himself first, at the end of the day. This provides Éomer with more failings that should turn this entire thought process off. Greedy. Cowardly. (Well, there are moments when he’s not. That’s more situational.) Nosey. Cold. Mean. Prickly. Full of lies — or at least used to be full of lies. 

These reminders do not do their office. 

Éomer wonders what would happen if he rolled to face Gríma. Nothing, probably. But he entertains the idea for a few minutes. He also entertains a thought of kissing him. Of unbelting their tunics and pushing enough of their clothes away so he could wrap a hand around both their pricks. 

Surely, Éomer thinks, he is allowed selfish thoughts, as future king. Just not selfish actions. And Gríma’s morose stares must mean _something._ They’re a bit much, even by Gríma’s standards. Having given himself leave to think impossible possibilities, Éomer ponders at length what those lingering looks might, or might not, mean.

An arm stretches over Éomer’s chest. Gríma makes a noise in the back of his throat as he resettles. Familiar heat blossoms in Éomer’s stomach then spreads up to his neck and cheeks as well as downward between his legs. Fuck, Éomer thinks. He curses the winter storm. They would be in Armagh but for the storm. In Armagh, alone, in separate beds. He also curses winter fires for what they do for Gríma’s face at night. A man that can really only be described as ugly shouldn’t be doing this to Éomer’s head. 

How did it come to this? 

Gríma inches closer. Éomer didn’t know that was possible. Forcing his eyes closed, he clears his mind. Envisions the fields of Éomarc in summer. Their rich grasses flowing in the wind, rippling like water. And slowly, gently, he falls asleep. 

//

Gríma is the first up so when Éomer emerges from their straw-cave feeling sore and tired, there is already a fire and food out. 

‘Sleep well?’ Éomer asks, prodding his sad breakfast. 

‘Yes,’ Gríma answers, not looking at him. 

‘Stigr not frozen to death?’ 

‘Don’t mock my valid concern about the health and safety of my horse.’ 

Éomer holds up his hands in surrender. He wouldn’t dare! It was an honest question. Gríma glares, pursing his lips and not answering. Running a hand through hair Éomer says, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock.’ 

‘There’s no need to apologize, my lord.’ 

‘It was said in jest. I didn’t mean it cruelly.’ 

‘As I said, my lord, there’s no need to apologize.’ 

Éomer resigns himself to the stalemate. Gríma plucks up his bags and busies himself with readying Stigr for the ride. Sun cuts through the openings of the hut and one beam slices against Gríma’s face, black hair pulled back in the northern fashion with a small, silver clasp. 

Following suit, Éomer brushes down Fyrfot meaning he and Gríma are back-to-back between the horses. Turning around Éomer catches Gríma’s arm, Gríma startles and looks down at the hand on his arm then up to Éomer’s face with eyes wide as Éomarc’s sky. 

‘The world isn’t here to eat you alive, you know that right?’ 

Gríma duly nods. 

‘Not everything is a personal attack.’ 

Gríma nods again. 

‘Reacting like every sentence is an arrow shot makes things harder for you more than anyone else.’ 

Gríma continues nodding. Frozen, save for his head which keeps moving in agreement with whatever Éomer is saying. Éomer sighs, releases Gríma and returns to saddling Fyrfot. Though he is not facing the man, he can veritably feel Gríma chewing over a reply that will likely never be heard aloud. That Gríma has something to say rolls off in waves; that he refuses to say it makes the air heavy. 

‘You can reply,’ Éomer says, back still to Gríma.

‘My lord.’ 

Éomer adjusts a saddle bag. Walks around to the other side of Fyrfot and can again see the back of Gríma’s head, still caught in the sunbeam. 

‘You can be forthright,’ Éomer adds. ‘I will certainly not hold it against you.’ 

‘My lord.’ 

‘You were loquacious yesterday.’ 

Gríma hums, tilts his head up and repeats: _loquacious_. ‘I’ve always liked that word.’ 

‘I now know the ins and outs of your views on Gandalf.’ 

‘To be fair, my lord, that was but a portion of my views on Gandalf.’ 

Éomer smiles. ‘Good, I would hate to assume I’d plumbed the depths of your opinions on wizards.’ 

Gríma looks over his shoulder with a wary expression. Then drops his eyes and turns back around. 

Once they are outside in the cold air, which nips noses and cheeks and ears, Gríma seems to relax. Whatever mood, or thoughts, that resulted in his caginess are gone. Tapping his leg Gríma mouths something to himself then says, ‘I suppose today is Yule-tide eve.’ 

‘Many well wishes of the season.’ 

Gríma looks at him for a long, heavy moment. Then gathers himself and says, ‘And to you as well, my lord. May your new year be blessed.’ 

‘I’ve no doubt it will,’ Éomer cheerfully replies. ‘The future is bright. I see much hope in it; for all of us.’

‘Is there?’ 

‘Absolutely. I know much ill has occurred, and there were times when I thought hope had long abandoned our lands, but there is no choice but to keep moving forward. And there’s value in working for a better world, even if you sometimes despair of the project. Anyway, it’s what we owe our children and grandchildren. We've a duty to the future, even if it not an easy duty to carry out. But, you know what they say about difficult tasks.’ 

Gríma tilts his head to the side. 

‘That the most worthwhile and important tasks a person can do are often, also, the most difficult,’ Éomer clarifies. 

‘Oh yes.’ 

‘Do you not subscribe to it?’ 

‘I can’t say, my lord.’ A positive sneer, ‘Some would say that I haven’t done much that is worthwhile.’ 

‘For three years, maybe. But your entirety isn’t defined by thirty-six months. Thirty-six months out of one-and-forty years? That’s over four hundred and ninety months. I don’t know. _I_ wouldn’t let it dictate the remaining decades, were I you.’ 

Gríma becomes tentative. It is a shy expression that runs across his face for a few seconds. He asks, ‘Last March. Nay, February, you said it was a shame I was working for the enemy.’ 

Éomer can’t remember this but says he trusts Gríma’s recollection. It certainly sounds like something he would say. This, however, prompts Gríma to swallow whatever question he was readying himself to ask. 

‘No,’ Éomer says. ‘Go on. You were going to ask something.’ 

‘If you can’t remember the conversation then you can’t answer my question.’ 

‘You don’t know that.’ 

‘I’m fairly certain, my lord.’ 

‘I want to know.’ 

‘You’re overly curious,’ Gríma bristles, ‘this is a new development.’ 

‘Just as you once mispriced Háma and others in your life, I have been brash in my own assumptions. I move too fast and don’t take time to hear those around me.’ 

‘I’m not your sister.’ 

‘Thank the sweet gods.’ 

‘What I mean is, my lord, you need not make such an effort. Reserve it for those to whom it is owed.’ 

This sits uneasy with Éomer and he doesn’t know how to address it. There is something in there about owing and kindness and he thinks to say: All people are owed kindness and respect — and that is what he is attempting here. If only to do his part in the whole returned-traitor-making-amends thing, which requires some help from others because Gríma is very good at spilling wine and breaking cups, but he is terrible at putting it all back together again. But aren’t most people? Everyone needs help from time to time. 

‘Well, I’m open to trying to answer your question,’ Éomer says for lack of anything else. ‘Who knows, it might cause me to remember the conversation.’ 

‘You were fiddling with the astrolabe and asking me about the accounts.’ 

‘I feel like I did that a lot.’ 

‘Indeed, my lord. Anyway, I had just wondered if there was any truth in it.’ 

Éomer furrows his brow: ‘Truth in what? That I thought it a shame you went and threw your lot in with Saruman? Of course there’s truth in it. Why wouldn’t there be?’ 

‘Because we spend many hours needling one another, my lord. It is a grand tradition of ours.’ 

‘I wouldn’t say something like that and not mean it.’ Éomer scratches his chin then adds, ‘I’m generally honest, I would like to hope. So, feel free to take most of what I say as some approximation of truth. Why?’ 

Gríma shakes his head. Says that it doesn’t matter. It was just a thought conjured up from the mention of Saruman and the last three years. Gríma goes quiet, turtling into himself. 

The world softens as clouds cover the sun so the snow no longer casts harsh light on eyes. Gríma fiddles with his reigns, almost compulsively. Wherever it is he has gone in his head, Éomer isn’t sure it is a good place. 

‘You want to hear about the time Ranoulf convinced Éothain and I to go with him to filch the Yule-stag?’ 

Gríma slowly emerges from his cloth shell and looks at Éomer with dawning realization: ‘It was _you_ who did that?’ 

‘Ranoulf, Éothain and I did it. Let us not place the blame entirely on my shoulders.’ 

A sliver of a smile. ‘I knew you were a miscreant when you were young but I never put you down for theft, vandalism, and arson. You’ll start rivaling Brynja and I.’ 

Éomer lets out a _ha_. ‘I am not surprised that you were a mischief maker as a child.’ 

‘Well,’ Gríma adopts a prim expression that does not fool Éomer in the slightest. ‘One does know another.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grima and Ranoulf are never allowed to meet.


	4. Chapter 4

It is gone noon when Éomer and Gríma arrive in Armagh. The town, walled in a similar manner to Edoras, is already in the full swing of Yule-tide eve activities. There is the bonfire in the centre square stacked and ready. The Yule-stag in the process of being decorated, above archways, gables and doors hang holly, pine, spruce, antlers. A harp can be heard, and accompanying drum, floating over snow-dusted roofs. 

With great enthusiasm does the chieftain of Armagh great Éomer. Lord Ivar son of Háma, grandson of Kotkel, is a congenial old man -- fat and with gentle eyes there exudes an air of calm assurance. He happily bids Éomer and Gríma welcome with open arms and familial hugs, though to Éomer’s knowledge neither he nor Gríma bear any relation to the man. 

Ivar exclaims: ‘Blessings of the Yule-tide season be upon you Éomer son of Éomund, Lord of the East-fold. It has been an age and a half since I saw you last. You were this tall (Ivar holds his hand below his hip) and clung to your father’s riding coat. Well, well, much has passed since that time. And blessings of the season to you Gríma son of Galmud.’ A wry smile as Ivar’s eyes dance. ‘We’ve heard much of your comings and goings and comings back again. My wife and I are well interested in hearing it all first hand. But! you’re a fellow son of the Wold, we never do much settle for normalcy do we?’ 

‘Not if we can help it, my lord,’ Gríma replies softly with a low bow. 

The rest of Ivar’s household is introduced so Éomer sees the rush of faces of Ivar’s wife Sweterun (light brown hair and brown skin of a woman from Dale), his daughter Éawine (a red-head and of marriageable age, it is not so subtly hinted), son Drengmer (perhaps one-and-twenty, brown-haired, with pock-marked face and his father’s easy smile), and youngest daughter Wynflaed (reddish-brown hair with a pouting expression of someone who would rather be elsewhere). Then the extended household - cousins, key servants to know if you are wanting for anything, Ivar’s right-hand man Deorwine, more cousins, other important leaders of Armagh who form the chieftain’s council. Everyone’s wives and daughters and sons and wards follow this introduction. As with all the towns before, it is a storm of faces and names and low bows and best-wishes-of-the-season. 

‘Enough, enough,’ Ivar holds his hands up as a fourth-cousin (from Ivar’s father’s side) introduces himself to Éomer. ‘Let the man breathe and have a drink and something to eat. Come,’ a motion to the entrance to his longhouse. ‘Humour an old man who dislikes the cold and wishes to sit by the fire. I see your compatriot is of my thinking, judging by his pallor. It’s age, I can’t take cold temperatures how I used to.’

Lord Ivar’s longhouse is grand, though on a smaller scale to Meduseld. The main posts that line the center aisle are carved with northern animals so it is all wolves, boar, wild cats, bears, reindeer, and elk. Richly painted with gold accenting antlers, horns, claws, the fire and reed lanterns reflect a glimmering light. Like all homes of Éomarc, the hall is smokey and smells of people, drink, hearth fire, and food. Beneath that, herbs and straw from the freshly lined floors. Ivar, being a man of wealth and means, has finely hewn wooden floors. No firm stone of Meduseld, but no packed earth of the storage hut they were in last night. 

‘Have you broken your midday meal?’ Ivar asks, taking a seat at the head of the hall. He gestures for Éomer to sit beside him. Gríma sits below Éomer on the bench. 

‘We have not, my lord,’ Éomer replies. 

‘Then you will share my board.’ 

And they did and Éomer found the food to be good, the company congenial, and the mead well aged. He thinks that out of all the towns they have stopped in on this brief tour, Armagh has had the most pleasant landing. 

//

It’s on account of Ivar having known his father, Éomer later decides. That’s why Armagh feels less intense than Imair or Sechnail. There is something about the old man that rings of Éomund, the little Éomer remembers. 

‘When did your father die?’ Éomer asks. He and Gríma, having been fed, shown their rooms, and acquainted with the sights of the town, are left to their own devices for the remaining hours before dinner. Ivar said: I would take you around myself, but I’ve business to attend to and I don’t wish to bore Lord Éomer to death on his first night. So, they are cast off into the market town to make-shift. 

As it is winter, the sun is already dipping even though it is but mid-afternoon. Therefore, all is cast in the multitudinous greys of twilight. 

‘Ten years ago, my lord,’ Gríma replies. 

‘What did he die of?’ 

‘Consumption, or something watery in the lungs.’ 

Éomer pauses to watch a child scramble atop the Yule-stag, tying boughs of pine and fir around its neck. As with most towns in Éomarc, Yule-tide eve is given as a half-day holiday to the people and all in Armagh appear to be making the most of it. Ale and mead are rolled out and a smaller bonfire, not the one set for tomorrow evening, is roaring. People gather around, throwing in pieces of cloth or rope or straw figures that represent what they hope will pass away with the old year. Burn up those unwanted things, make it so the new year begins a fresh sun on a fresh world. 

‘So you remember him?’ 

Gríma nods, yes, yes, his father was present all his life. Watching the decorating of the Yule-stag he says, ‘If it goes missing I will know which door to send inquiring townsfolk to.’ 

‘Ranoulf is to blame, not I. I thought I made that clear.’ 

‘Indeed, my lord.’ 

Éomer jerks his head towards the fire, says he wants ale and to warm his hands. Gríma follows, a half-step behind. 

‘Were you close with him?’ Éomer asks. 

‘My father? Not particularly. We were very different people. I don’t think he quite knew what to do with me, though he tried. Granted, I don’t believe I was an easy child.’ 

‘Paint me shocked.’ 

Gríma sneers, but there is some amusement hidden in the eyes so Éomer grins and declares that he is after ale or maybe mulled wine if there is any on hand. ‘Find chestnuts,’ he directs Gríma. 

‘We just ate, my lord.’ 

‘You say that like it’s relevant.’ 

Gríma spins on his heel and departs for the man roasting them by the corner of a large building that Éomer assumes to be where Ivar counsels with the other lords of the town. Watching Gríma from the corner of his eye, Éomer thinks his selfish thoughts and decides he likes how firelight glints off black hair.

He truly needs to wrap this up, he tells himself. These impossible possibilities cannot follow him to Edoras. This cannot continue for too long. It might start to feel like it means something when it doesn’t. 

Bored, lonely, and a bit randy, he reminds himself. That’s all. 

Returning a few minutes later, Gríma bears a smug face and a collection of chestnuts held in a large mug. ‘If we return the cup we get two pence back.’ He is evidently pleased with himself for this arrangement. 

‘We’re rich,’ Éomer declares. ‘Lay the coins out and roll around on them.’ 

Grims peers at him in mild consternation. 

‘I’m in a giddy mood, best ignore it.’ Advice Gríma appears content to take for he says not a word and instead delicately eats a chestnut. Éomer pushes a second cup towards him: ‘Got one for you.’ 

‘Thank you, my lord.’ What a furrowed brow of suspicion. But it passes, faster than it had in the past which is something. Maybe, Éomer thinks, he will drag Gríma kicking and screaming into being a somewhat palatable person. Not too pleasant, for where’s the charm in that? But less exhaustingly tense and suspicious. Constantly flinching and apologizing as if the world is made of glass; as if he is treading upon eggshells. And should Gríma break one, what does he think will happen?

Nothing good, he supposes, at least with men like Saruman. Éomer eats a chestnut and ponders if he’s done anything to warrant the rabbit-esque nerves. 

‘Do people roll around on their money?’ Gríma asks, before tucking into the mead. ‘I thought that was just dragons and crows.’ 

‘Crows?’ 

‘Love shiny objects.’ 

Éomer hums in interest. Declares that he learns something new every day then says, ‘I mean, I don’t think anyone rolls around on their money. It was just an entertaining image — the idea of someone covering their bed in coin and rolling about on it. I don’t know — giddy, as I said.’ 

Gríma thinks this over. He steals a chestnut. ‘Cold, my lord. I think it would be cold and uncomfortable. And you’re liable to lose some.’ 

‘You’re digging too deep into this.’ 

‘My lord.’ Bowed head in quiet apology. 

Éomer sighs into his mead. Well, one step forward two steps back. That’s how life goes. 

Gríma watches the fire, absently drinking. Every so often his eyes flick around, taking in the stalls, the decorations, the people coming and going. Éomer wouldn’t be surprised if the man had every face memorized in this space. Then, between the watching of the fire and the watching of people, Éomer is certain the restless gaze falls on him. 

Which makes Gríma’s expression sly, for it is out of the corner of his eye and, in general, he always looks like he’s in the middle of a scheme. Probably because he is, Éomer thinks. There’s always something percolating in that mind of his. 

But, Éomer likes that there are glances thrown his way. It makes him feel tall. 

‘May I ask a question, my lord?’ 

‘Sure.’ 

‘Why were you inquiring after my father?’ 

‘No real reason. Ivar reminds me of mine, so that had me thinking about fathers, which had me thinking about family, which had me thinking about...’ he waves his hand: _so on and so forth._ ‘So, you’re closer to your mother?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘But you said you weren’t close to your father—’ 

‘One does not necessitate the other. I was close with neither. I suppose, I know my mother better than I knew my father, if that makes sense.’ 

‘It does,’ Éomer says. ‘You said she horse-whispered, makes sense that there would be some affinity.’ 

Gríma gives a mirthless smile. ‘That is one way to put it. But, truthfully, I don’t think about my parents over much, my lord. They did what they did, they didn’t do what they didn’t do, and that is the end of it.’ Gríma drains the mead. Shaking the cup he says he is going for more, would Lord Éomer like some? Lord Éomer would. 

When Éomer hands over his cup his fingers bump against Gríma’s palm, it is a shock - when you take a heavy wool coat off then touch amber or metal. And he swears both freeze for a hair of a second but then they again are moving. Gríma is walking off, Éomer is watching him, there is a glance over the shoulder, Éomer catches sight of it and he breathes in deep. The day is suddenly warm, though it is full dusk with that winter sun setting early. Short days, long nights. Darkness always holds potential. Éomer doesn’t let himself think about it. 

//

As with previous towns, the first dinner Éomer attends is large, boisterous, and filled with everyone who is of any sort of importance. Unlike previous ones, though, this is Yule-tide eve meaning that there is more of everything. More cider, more wine, more ale, more boar, more fish, more pheasant, more bread, more cheese, more preserves, more confits of various and sundry things—

Éomer is seated to Ivar’s right and spends his time catching snatches of conversation between Drengmer, Ivar’s son, and the man to the young lord’s right. It is a long treatise on the benefit of falconry over any other form of hunting. 

In the midst of a vehement defense of peregrines over kestrels, Ivar presses his shoulder, ‘Deorwine has a question, my lord.’ 

Éomer looks around Ivar to see the freckled, thickly bearded face of Deorwine. A man of indeterminate age, he is grave though not melancholic. A Boromir sort of grave, Éomer thinks. The grave of someone who has much on their shoulders. 

‘My lord,’ Deorwine inclines his head. ‘Many good tidings of the season to you and yours.’ 

‘And to you as well,’ Éomer rejoins. 

‘I know we are meant to be celebrating, but I wished to inquire after any possible aid that may be coming from Edoras. We have roads ruined by orcs and several bridges that are along the king’s highway that require mending. Not to mention the rest of what is required to make repairs after the war.’ 

Éomer smiles in such a way that he could mean anything. He says he will take it back to his uncle. 

‘Perhaps we can discuss it tomorrow, with clear heads. But I wanted to ensure it was brought to your attention, my lord.’ 

‘I thank you for it. And please, tell me what you need. That is why I’m here, to listen and inform my uncle.’ 

Ivar claps a hand on Deorwine’s shoulder, ‘Enough business, my friend. Let us bother the poor prince tomorrow. His father was the same, you have to woo slowly if you want anything from him,’ a laughing smile.

‘You knew my father well?’ Éomer asks, taking a sip of wine. Ivar’s face lifts up in pleasure. 

‘I did. When I was a younger man I rode with him for several years. You were a boy when he was taken from you.’ 

‘Thirteen. But he was often away on business.’ 

Ivar nods slowly, playing with the stem of his glass. It is of a fine Gondor make, etched and coloured green. Éomer’s is similar, though there is a thin rim of gold around the top. 

‘Yes, that sounds like Éomund. He was very dedicated to his role as Third Marshal. I told him to spend more time at home, especially after you were born, that he had trustworthy men who could manage things for him for more than three weeks married together, but he liked to keep his hand in it.’ 

‘That sounds like him, from the little I remember.’ 

‘He was hot headed,’ Ivar continues. ‘Had a habit of letting his feet run out of the gate before his mind gave them permission. But, he was steadfast and loyal. To the end. A firm believer in seizing the moment. He always said, If we are all to die, then isn’t it our duty to live your fullest life? To think this sun and this moon could be your last and act accordingly. To love this world as if this is your only chance. You’ll never get another opportunity to love these grasses we live in, to love the skies and heavens above, to love and do what it is you were born for. He believed that if you didn’t, you dishonoured the life you were given.’ 

Voices rise up. The room becomes tumultuous with cheering and someone beginning a song. Éomer silently drinks his wine, letting those words sit in his head for a good while. He thinks there is something to it, that if you are given a life it is your right and duty to live it well and fully. Why waste the one chance you have of happiness? The one opportunity to feel sun on your face? 

Éomund certainly lived by that creed, and died by that creed. Éomer inherited Éomund’s sense of duty, his loyalty, his face, his hands, his gate - but he did not inherit the carefreeness of his father. 

Théodred noted, once, _Your father had more levity to him._ To which Éomer asked, _He was a happy man?_

_He had much to be happy about._

_But his personality, it was a bright one?_

_Yes, buoyant. If we were to compare it to light he was the bright, but gentle light of sunrise whereas you’re more the bright but sombre light of late afternoon._

_I’m not sombre._

Théodred picked up his whetstone and began singing to himself. Éomer thought this not something you tell someone then abandon the conversation partway through. 

But, he muses, that was Théodred. Half in and half out of everything. 

If this moon were the last moon he breathed under, would he be content? Éomer doesn’t know. If tomorrow’s sun were the last sun he saw, could he die and say that he did nothing by halves? More yes than no. But enough no to give him pause. 

The evening continues. 

Éomer has his attention split between Ivar and his son and, upon occasion, Ivar’s daughter Eawine, whenever Drengmer remembers to move over so his sister can talk to the eligible, unmarried third marshal and heir to the throne. 

Every so often he searches for Gríma who is seated at one of the lower tables, amongst the non-nobles and non-members of Ivar’s household. Whenever they catch each other’s eye Éomer thinks the room becomes warmer. It is always fleeting, though, and as soon as Gríma has returned attention elsewhere Éomer tells himself it was a figment of his imagination. 

At one point, he watches Gríma say something to one of the men at the table then he stands, takes up his cloak and leaves the hall. Éomer waits for a beat before leaning over to Ivar, ‘I’m going out for some air. I won’t be a moment.’ 

It wasn’t wholly a lie, Éomer thinks once he has left the hall. The night air is fresh against his skin and the room had been getting a bit too warm and smokey. 

He looks about for any sign of Gríma and spies a glow of pipe embers. He wanders over and says, ‘I thought you had the right idea.’ 

Gríma blows out smoke. ‘It was getting a little warm.’ 

Éomer takes a seat beside him on the bench. Perhaps they are close, with shoulders touching, but it is a small bench and they both have winter cloaks on. If there is a weight to the air, if there is some tangible meaning sitting before them, Éomer determines it is entirely in his head. 

‘Care to share?’ Éomer asks. Gríma hums an agreement. ‘I think Éawine is as uninterested as I am.’ 

A wicked smile from Gríma. ‘The follies of dynastic marriages. Ivar is a fool if he thinks such a match has any chance of happening.’ 

‘Oh, still making matrimonial decisions for the court, are you? Look at you, once again taking up the mantel of king’s adviser with such ease.’ 

Gríma scowls, taps out the pipe and pulls a new bowl. ‘I only mean, Ivar is a petty lord and you will marry someone more useful. Your uncle would have a pretty fit if he thought anything like this were a possibility.’ 

‘I don’t know that my uncle would have a fit, per se.’ 

Gríma passes over the pipe. ‘I know your uncle well, my lord. He’d have a fit. Only, it would be in private and you would never know of it. But, have you given serious thought to marriage, my lord?’ 

‘A little. I thought, maybe Gondor?’ Éomer blows out smoke, watching Gríma’s face to gauge his views for he knows, no matter Gríma’s _actual_ views on the matter, the response will be something along the lines of: _A good thought, my lord._

Gríma’s brow lifts a fraction then settles. ‘Gondor is a good option, my lord.’ 

‘You think otherwise.’ 

‘I think it would be a waste, my lord. You are friends with Lord Boromir, and I suppose the king, which is a soft-power approach to ensuring a mutually beneficial, and long lasting, friendship between our two countries. And, more formally, your sister’s marriage further secures Éomarc’s alliance with Gondor. Though, I’d have leveraged it a bit more as a bargaining chip, but that’s neither here nor there.’ 

Gods, of course he would have, Éomer doesn’t say aloud. He hands the pipe back. A careful dance of hands. 

‘So, this leaves the question of who we need as friends for the foreseeable future. The Dunlanders --’ 

_‘Really?’_

‘Assuredly, my lord.’ Gríma blows out smoke and watches it dissipate into night air. ‘Make them our friends and we will hopefully have no more repeats of Helm Hammerhand’s disastrous ending. I believe their chief, Rhodri, has a sister of marriageable age. Or was that a cousin? Regardless, there’s someone over there who would be suitable.’’

A pause as the hall door opens. Éomer and Gríma watch a man stumble out, find the nearest bush, and vomit. He then turns around, says to no one, ‘I’m fine,’ and returns inside. 

‘There is Dale, of course,’ Gríma continues, as if nothing had occurred. ‘Or you could branch out into new territories. There are countries out east it would behoove us to be friendly with, if only for trade. With Sauron gone, entirely new worlds of opportunity have opened up.’ 

A delicate moment as Gríma hands the pipe to Éomer, fingers brushing in the process. Éomer tamps down the coals that have been threatening to reignite in his stomach for the last ten minutes. 

‘The world does not revolve around Gondor, my lord. No matter how much Gondor might think it does.’ 

‘So, you’d recommend a marriage to anyone but Gondor?’ 

‘As I said, your sister has already secured Gondor. Anyway, your children can marry Aragorn’s children. That would make dynastic sense. If you marry out east, there is plenty of terribly _old_ nobility to choose from. Which would, for those who care, make your children more _appropriate_ , shall we say, to marry the king of Gondor’s children. His wife is of noble lineage too, I believe. Beren and Luthien. Hard to match that.’ A pause then Gríma adds, ‘And her grandmother is the lady of the Goldenwood.’ 

‘The elven witch Gimli is in love with?’ 

‘The same,’ Gríma replies with great amusement. ‘In love, do you say?’ 

‘Well, we almost quarreled about it when we first met.’ 

‘I am sure he deeply admires and respects her. I’m not sure I would go so far as to say _in love._ ’ 

There is something in there, Éomer thinks, but he is too content to go digging into the mire of Gríma’s personal knowledge on people. So, he returns to hypotheticals: ‘Dunland, though, I suppose that’s more of an Éomarc-beneficial decision. They’ve no old, noble families. Well, none that Gondor would care about.’ 

‘Indeed,’ the mirthless smile returns. ‘Technically, we all come from old families. But yes, in my past life as an adviser to the king, my recommendation would be for you to marry anyone but Gondor, with a strong preference for either Dunlanders or out east. Our ties with Dale and Laketown are strong, I think we can wait a generation before resealing that alliance with a marriage or two. Then, my advice would be for you and Aragorn to arrange a match between your children, as you see fit. Who knows, if he only has girls you could be father of the future king of Gondor. That would certainly alter the balance of the world.’ 

Éomer blows out smoke and admits to himself that he had never considered this. Just as he hadn’t considered a Dunlander alliance. Or an eastern one. Dale and Laketown were already on the list, along with a few smaller states to the west of the White Mountains. But none were serious contenders. 

The more he thinks on it, the more he can see a world opening up, the webs and networks stitching families together, people and cultures together. There are such possibilities out there, for this new age. 

‘Anyway,’ Gríma’s voice drops. ‘I suspect Gondor will go through an expansion period now that they’ve their king back. Relive the glory days of Numenor.’ 

‘I see.’

‘Indeed, my lord. I dislike unbalanced fields. If this occurs, everything tips in favour of Gondor - more so than it already is. They play with weighted dice. So, it is best for Éomarc to forge new alliances that can be leveraged, as needed.’ 

‘You’re a very dangerous man to know,’ Éomer says, handing the pipe back. ‘You’re aware of that, right?’ 

‘I am a practical man,’ Gríma replies with an entirely self-satisfied smile. ‘And I only ever wish to serve our people as best I can, my lord.’ 

Éomer hums an: _of course_. From inside a song strikes up, someone has brought out a tympanum and is playing it near a window for its clear notes sound out over the snow. Gríma leans back against the wall and nudges Éomer with his leg, ‘Do you want to go in, my lord? We’re done with the smoke.’ 

The nudge sends sparks up Éomer’s thigh, making his chest tight. He doesn’t want to move for that would break whatever spell has been woven. Gríma’s head rolls to look at Éomer and, as they are sitting shoulder to shoulder, Éomer feels the slight shift this movement causes. Gods he wants to pull Gríma into his lap and make him squirm. Push his hand between his legs and order him to keep talking about alliances and political levers and the wide future of possibilities while Éomer pulls him off. Or, turns them around so Gríma is shoved up against the wall and Éomer is on his knees with Gríma’s cock in his mouth. 

Delightfully filthy. 

Another nudge. 

Gríma’s eyes have not left Éomer’s face. They are shadowed and only when Gríma tilts his head towards the sky do they reflect moonlight. 

‘My lord?’ 

‘You go in, if you want,’ Éomer says. ‘I’m going to give it a minute.’ 

Gríma searches Éomer’s face and Éomer wants him both to go and stay. Sitting forward, Gríma says that he will be back. He’s going to defrost himself then find wine. If Éomer hasn’t come back in, he’ll bring some wine out. 

Éomer thinks to stop him, to put a hand on his thigh and say: Stay. Let him slide fingers up to Gríma’s crotch. Or, if the mood is not bawdiness, let him kiss Gríma’s neck. The inside of his wrist. Suck those thin-boned fingers. _Stay. Stay. Stay._

But he doesn’t. 

He watches Gríma stand, look at him with a lingering, questioning look, then disappear inside. 

The evening winds down and the last of the guests trawl their way out of the main hall in the midst of the small hours. Éomer, having remained up with their host, slowly makes his way to his room. As he does, he passes Gríma’s and notices the door slightly ajar and candles lit. 

He pauses, thinks to knock and say something. Thinks that this is daft. His head is full of wine and mead and he really just wants to curl up and sleep in a proper bed, another part of him wants that but with company. 

What was it his father apparently said? If we’re to all eventually die, ought we not live life to the fullest? Should we not love life and the world as if we are never getting another chance? And Gríma said that line - gods he can’t remember - something about if you become only duty and only honour your soul shrinks. Becomes skeletal. 

Maybe he didn’t use the word skeletal. 

It’s still a selfish act. Knocking, saying something, asking if he can come in and then asking if he could maybe kiss the man for a while. 

Regardless of whether or not that would be something Gríma would seek to use to his advantage, and the old Gríma certainly would, it is selfish because of the risk it poses to his position. The security of his inheritance. 

But gods, he sees his selfless life roll out in front of him and he hates every minute of it. 

Turning to leave the door fully opens and Gríma startles when he sees Éomer. 

‘My lord.’ 

‘Er.’ 

Gríma looks up and down the empty hallway. ‘It is late, my lord.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Can I be of assistance?’ 

Éomer licks his lips. Oh gods, he thinks, he’s going to be incredibly stupid. He says, ‘I was thinking about how we once played backgammon. Pre-treason years. And how, if I remember right, we left it at a draw.’ 

‘Three-three,’ Gríma says. ‘That was many years ago.’ 

‘I thought we could have a game. If you’d like. Tonight, maybe. Or tomorrow, if you would prefer. Or, I suppose, no game at all.’ 

Gríma carefully considers him. A slow, questing look that digs into Éomer’s skull. Éomer thinks that if Gríma takes any longer he’s just going to be blunt about the matter. 

‘I think tomorrow, my lord. If you remain interested.’

‘Tomorrow. Right.’ 

‘Everyone plays better when sober.’ 

‘Do they ever.’ 

Gríma lifts an eyebrow, steps back half a pace. ‘Good night, my lord.’ 

Éomer hurries a glance up and down the hall, stops the door before it closes entirely, then leans in and presses his mouth against Gríma’s. A flash of shock then Gríma’s fingers are swiftly in Éomer’s hair, gripping hard, and gods Éomer wants to slam the man against the wall and fuck him. Wants to feel every inch of him. He pushes his tongue into Gríma’s mouth, eliciting a muffled moan. Their bodies should be touching. Gríma’s fingers should be under Éomer’s tunic wrapped around his —

As suddenly as it began Gríma is half-behind the door, colour on his usually pale cheeks, whispering, ‘You had best go, my lord.’ 

Éomer grins what and he knows to be a positively lascivious look. ‘Sure, sleep well. Blessings of the Yule-tide be upon you.’ 

‘I’ve no doubt of it.’ 

Éomer hears the door shut only when he’s partly down the hall. He bites his lip, thinks that he is standing on a knife’s edge of something that could be quite dangerous. He should turn away from this path. He should think of the possible outcomes should it ever be exposed - what people would say about him. About Théodred’s death. He should think about the future.

He knows he absolutely should not dive head first off this cliff. 

He knows that this is exactly what he is going to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: animal sacrifice, but no explicit descriptions

Morning. Éomer rolls over, buries his face into the pillow and thinks he should sleep for another two hundred years. 

The town is clearly waking up as he can hear the clatter of servants downstairs and shopkeepers outside. He finds it very rude of everyone to be going about their day when he wishes to sleep. Flopping onto his back his stares up to the canopy. 

What a night. 

The ending of it being the first thing he thinks about. He waits for the expected regret, apprehension but it doesn’t arrive. There is nervousness, but it is the usual kind he feels when he must face the reality that someone might say: upon sober reflection, without the influence of mead and smoke and food and the bonhomie of the mead hall, it is best we do not partake of this particular activity. Namely, no longer are you of interest to me. 

Idly, he pulls up his nightshift, brushes hand down stomach and begins to stroke himself. Decides to lean into the previous night’s events and imagines Gríma straddling him. Riding his cock, legs against his hips. Éomer’s hands on his waist pushing him down as he fucks into him. He strokes harder, tighter. Thinks about how badly he wants to come into the older man. How badly he wants to hear his balls slapping against Gríma’s ass as Éomer fucks him over his bed — or Gríma’s old desk — or on his hands and knees on the floor somewhere. 

Feeling himself getting close he gropes around for his dirty shift from the previous evening and uses it to keep the sheets unsoiled. He spends into it on an upward thrust, eyes screwed shut, swallowing a shuddering gasp. 

Afterwards, he thinks that that was much needed. Thinks that he still wants to fuck the living day lights out of Gríma at the first, reasonable, opportunity.

Once Éomer emerges, the morning is mostly gone but what remains of it is spent with Ivar and Deorwine discussing what is needed for Armagh to set itself fully onto the path of recovery. Where Gríma has disappeared himself to, Éomer isn’t entirely certain. The man had a habit of doing this every so often in previous towns. Around constantly, like a burr, then suddenly gone for hours. 

Perhaps he is purchasing more potatoes, Éomer dryly thinks. 

Deorwine’s voice cuts in, ‘Would you be interested in a tour, my lord? We can take you to the most heavily impacted places in the area. So you can gain a better idea of our needs.’ 

Éomer nods, yes, yes, that would be good. ‘I need to wrangle Gríma, first. He’s required on these sorts of tours.’ 

A glance of confusion between Ivar and Deorwine. 

‘To see the repercussions of his actions,’ Éomer clarifies. ‘A learning experience, shall we say. My uncle is very set on them.’ 

‘Ah, I understand,’ Ivar says. ‘I’ll have one of my men find him. I’m sure he hasn’t gone too far. The Yule-tide market’s not truly started yet so there isn’t too much trouble he could be getting into.’ 

Éomer does not feel the need to point out that Gríma, left to his own devices, is capable of getting into plenty of trouble without outside help. He brings trouble with him wherever he goes. 

It does not take long before Deorwine, Éomer and a recalcitrant Gríma are on horseback and leaving the town to see a selection of homesteads and hamlets. Also roads and bridges. Deorwine says, ‘I just want to make the infrastructure challenge clear, my lord.’ 

Gríma, ‘Infrastructure is important.’ 

Deorwine scowls. ‘Yes, would be nice if orcs hadn’t burnt some of it down.’ 

Éomer smiles winningly at Gríma who bites back whatever reply he had at the ready. Hunkering down into his winter cloak, Gríma exudes his discontent like a candle diffusing scented oil. It positively rolls off him. 

An hour or so out of Armagh and they arrive at the first hamlet on the tour. Nestled against the river, several burnt buildings stand out as blacked shawls against the winter countryside. The fields have been put right since the war, or perhaps they had not suffered. It is fortunate, Éomer muses, that the first thing that can be repaired after a battle is the field it was fought on. 

‘They suffered two raids, my lord,’ Deorwine explains, dismounting. ‘I’ll introduce you to the chief families.’ 

A round of introductions occurs as people come out of their homes to greet Deorwine, with whom they are evidently familiar, and his companions. 

‘It is good to meet you, my lord,’ a young man called Birger says with a low bow. ‘It’s heartening to see our Marshal and the king’s nephew here abouts.’ 

‘Which attack saw those houses burnt?’ Éomer asks. 

‘The first, my lord. Orcs came over the river in low boats in the middle of the night. The first we knew of it was when the rooves caught alight. It is shameful to say that we could not stand against them, only run. Most of our men were elsewhere. It was in March, you see.’ 

And so they would have been south, in Gondor. Or out west in the Westemnet. Not home, not where they were needed. But, there are people needed everywhere. There is no right answer to the decision of when and how to best call a levy. It is a careful balancing act to determine when to remove men from their communities, and how many, and for how long. The eastern border was not strong, Éomer knew this. But he also knew the greater threats came from the south and the west. You gamble, when you lead a country. It behooves a people to have lucky rulers.

To the men and women gathered Éomer says that they have nothing to be ashamed of for they did what they could. No one can do more than that. ‘And the second raid?’ 

‘Night as well, but we had a watch set up so we saw them coming up the river. That skirmish we managed to stand ground and fought them back onto their skiffs and they were off again.’ 

‘That is well done. You should be proud. How many did you lose?’ 

‘Three in the second raid, my lord. But the fire took a family.’ Birger goes quiet then shrugs with a slight shake of his head. A movement and expression that conveys: _what can you do?_ ‘It would have been quick. They were asleep and the smoke would have done the work before the blaze.’

Not a way anyone would want to go. Éomer knows how fires in longhouses work, how the smoke strangles the victims, takes the animals in the byre, the servants sleeping nearby — everyone gone within minutes. Then the flames descend and consume leaving only partial remains for burial. 

Birger explains that they haven’t had time to pull the houses down, nor the man power. But come spring they will. The land will be turned over. It is a good plot, someone else will take it and work it. Maybe even build a new home over the remains of the old. 

The other hamlets are much the same. Tales of raids and skirmishes. Names of the dead are listed and Éomer does his best to remember them. He tells Gríma, ‘I hope you’re making note of the names. All of them.’ And Gríma says, ‘Of course, my lord. I have them all.’ 

Taking them along the dug-up king’s highway Deorwine explains how the orcs made merry havoc with the roadworks. He points to where he has begun instructing men on repairs, but it is slow going. Too few hands and too much to do. He doesn’t say what it is he wants from Éomer but Éomer knows when manpower is being asked for over money. 

Deorwine says, ‘I have informed Lord Ivar of the struggles we face in repairing what has been undone.’ 

‘And gold will not fill in holes and mend bridges,’ Éomer replies. 

Deorwine inclines his head while saying, ‘But my Lord Ivar knows best.’ 

Éomer smiles and says he understands. Deorwine, relieved, ‘I’m glad you do, my lord.’ 

Arriving back in Armagh by mid-afternoon Éomer watches Gríma dismount and lead Stigr into the stables. The man had been quiet throughout the tour, which is normal for him in these moments. Éomer has been on a few with him out in the Westfold, where the damage is more clear. Where Saruman left his mark in a manner deep enough that one season won’t wash it away. Out east, this is Sauron’s business. Not the wizard’s. 

Still, Gríma looks at everything with those large eyes of his. His gaunt face scanning the scene. He listens to the stories and says not a word unless prompted. 

Éomer leads Fyrfot into the stall beside Stigr and asks, ‘Well?’ 

‘Well what, my lord?’ 

‘What think you of everything?’ 

‘What a broad and impossible to answer question, my lord.’ 

Éomer turns and leans against the partition. Gríma has removed the saddle and is currently sliding the pad and blanket off Stigr. 

‘I know these incursions are the work of Sauron and independent orcs with an entrepreneurial spirit,’ Éomer spies a sliver of a smile, ‘but you must feel something when you see how our people have been impacted.’ 

‘It is unfortunate,’ Gríma replies evenly. ‘Naturally, I take no pleasure in it.’ 

‘Can you not show some sympathy or remorse?’ 

‘Remorse? For events I had nothing to do with? As you said: this is work done by Sauron and independent orcs who owed allegiance to no one, let alone Saruman.’ 

‘And the Westfold? The dead men, women, children?’ 

Gríma begins to brush down Stigr and does not answer. Éomer waits. He thinks that this is fine, they have all day. There is no place either needs to be. He can wait for an answer until the sun sets and rises again. 

‘Saruman was seeking lordship over Éomarc with or without me,’ comes Gríma’s reply from behind Stigr’s neck. 

‘That isn’t an answer,’ Éomer snaps. 

Gríma steps around Stigr so he is on the same side as Éomer. But, his back is to the lord as he continues to studiously brush down his horse. 

‘Well?’ Éomer prompts. 

‘I have few words for emotions,’ Gríma says quietly. ‘So to answer your question, when I see the destruction of the Westfold and the burial mounds and empty farms I do feel something. But I don’t know what it is I would call it.’ 

Well then. Éomer falters over how to best reply for whatever answer he had been expecting from Gríma, this was absolutely not it. He had been waiting for prevarication. For sneering or scoffing or side-stepping any involvement. All of which are things he has seen and heard before. 

But no, here is this statement laid out between them and Éomer has no idea what to do with it. So he does nothing with it. Instead, he returns to Fyrfot. 

After a moment he asks, ‘Presuming you feel something like regret or remorse, is it because of what you have done and the harm caused or is it because you weren’t successful?’ 

Gríma continues working. There is the steady rhythm of brush on horse for several minutes. Then silence. Then tackle being gathered up. Boots on straw as he leaves the stall. At the entrance to Fyrfot’s Gríma pauses, winter sunlight slanting in through the door, casting him in shadow. 

‘That, my lord, would be a confidence too far.’ 

Éomer sees him standing there, in the king’s colours, holding saddle and pad, the reigns over his shoulder, hair in disarray, a dour expression writ across his face. 

‘And if I ordered you to answer me truthfully?’ Éomer asks. 

‘Then I would answer.’ 

A beat. 

Gríma, cautiously, ‘Are you ordering me?’ 

‘No,’ Éomer sighs. ‘No, I’m not. Because that’s not right. A man is allowed his secrets.’ And, Éomer isn't certain he wants to know the answer. 

Gríma hovers for another moment, takes a single step forward. Pebbles crunch beneath boot. ‘I said I would try and make the correct, moral choices in most situations. I did not say that I was going to be nice and I did not say that I was going to feel whatever it is people expect me to feel.’ 

‘Regret for the harm caused,’ Éomer says. ‘That’s generally what people expect of someone who’s messed up.’ 

Gríma hums, tilts back on his heels. ‘Perhaps that is what I feel. Perhaps not.’ 

‘Háma’s death?’ Éomer unbelts Fyrfot’s saddle, hears the sharp inhale, and can positively feel Gríma’s uncertainty. 

‘Yes. I feel some remorse for having been party to his death.’ 

Éomer nods, working this through. Still doesn’t look at Gríma but knows the other man is staring at him. ‘I suppose that will do for now,’ Éomer says at length. ‘I suppose that might have to do, full stop.’ 

‘Yes, my lord, quite possibly.’ 

And Gríma is gone. 

Éomer rests his forehead against Fyrfot’s shoulder. He thinks that he didn’t know what he was expecting. Gríma has never hidden who he is, at least in this respect. It is strange to hear the same man who expounded on the wide world of options for Éomarc’s future the night before speak so callously of the people of that self-same country. 

The nature of advising is removal of self, he knows. The ability to be objective, as much as a person can be. The ability to look at a situation from all angles, all sides, to dispassionately run it through every possible outcome. 

Is it possible to remove yourself so much that you forget how to be who you are? That you forget how to care for the people whose livelihoods with which you are entrusted? Or has Gríma always been like this? Or is it a mixture of both? He doesn’t know. He also doesn’t know that it necessarily matters save that Gríma is dispassionate when people are expected to display strong emotions.

Well, there is displaying and there is feeling. One does not necessitate the other. 

‘My lord?’ Gríma’s soft voice. Éomer quickly straightens and goes to the stall door. Gríma isn’t looking at him which is a very Gríma reaction to an uncomfortable conversation. ‘Lord Ivar wishes to speak with you, whenever you’re able.’ 

‘I’ll be along in a moment.’

‘I shall let him know, my lord.’ 

‘Wait,’ Éomer grabs Gríma’s arm and the man freezes, eyes widening a fraction. ‘I want to say something. Your choices from, I would say half-way through Helm’s Deep forward, have been ones I more or less understand and relatively think to be the right ones. More or less.’ 

A shadow of a wry smile about Gríma’s mouth. 

‘You’re trying,’ Éomer clarifies. ‘I don’t discount that.’ 

‘Thank you, my lord, I am sure.’ 

‘I had thought you felt something over Háma’s death. When we discussed it on the wall.’ 

‘I was not at my best at that precise moment.’ 

‘No, you weren’t. But it heartens me to hear you confirm my interpretation of your reaction.’ 

Gríma, testily, ‘There is no need to harp on this, my lord.’ 

‘There is the past,’ Éomer says. ‘And it rolls into our present and our future. But we are still able to make choices on how we will live with it, or not. How we will seek to change things, or not.’ 

‘You’re beginning to sound like Legolas’ dwarven friend.’ 

‘Gimli.’ 

‘Yes, him.’ 

‘I know you know his name.’ 

‘Possibly.’ 

Éomer tilts his head, searches Gríma’s face, then half-laughs. Drops his hand from Gríma’s arm. ‘You’re being a prick on purpose, now.’ 

‘I would never do that, my lord. I am as you will always find me.’

‘Shit-disturbing.’ 

‘I wouldn’t go _that_ far, my lord.’ 

Éomer reaches forward and tugs Gríma into the stall. He murmurs, ‘Stirring the pot. That’s what you’re doing. Pot stirring.’ 

‘I suppose someone must keep the stew going. Things only happen if you encourage them.’ 

Éomer murmurs, ‘that’s true,’ before leaning in and brushing his lips against Gríma’s as he backs him into a support beam. Then Éomer kisses him. Warmly. Resting his hands on Gríma’s hips he tugs them forward so they’re partially flush against each other. As the night before, Gríma’s fingers are in Éomer’s hair as he bends into the younger man. 

‘You’re terribly inconvenient,’ Éomer whispers as they part, foreheads resting against each other. ‘This is a monstrously terrible idea.’ 

‘Assuredly, my lord.’

‘Do you remember what Saruman said? How I benefited from Théodred’s death—’ 

‘The trick, my lord, is not getting caught. A state of affairs I am equally invested in. I suspect people would come for my blood if anyone were to find out, thinking I had bewitched the nephew now.’ 

‘And have you?’ Éomer teases. 

‘Hardly, my lord,’ Gríma sneers. ‘It wouldn’t work on you.’ 

‘Is that true or are you saying that to lull me into a false sense of security?’ 

Gríma slides a hand from Éomer’s hair to the lord’s chest. He taps it twice then twice again. Says that Éomer is being paranoid. And the lord dared call Gríma’s mind overly suspicious! To which Éomer replies that he has good reason for his wariness, Gríma does not. 

‘Possibly,’ Gríma agrees with a sour and petulant expression. Deciding it somewhat endearing, given the circumstances, Éomer kisses him again. Deepening it so they’re open mouthed and everything is very warm. Very present. Fingers tug at Éomer’s hair sending sparks down his spine. Pushing the other man slightly up on the beam, Éomer gropes down to eagerly palm Gríma’s crotch. This elicits a sharp gasp and Gríma’s eyes close as lips part. 

Pulling back enough to look down, Éomer watches his hand rub between Gríma’s legs, thinks this is a sight he very much likes, before he leans in to kiss neck, beneath ear, licking from nape up to jaw causing the quietest moans of: _gods, gods, gods._ One of Gríma’s hands slides down Éomer’s back to grab his arse, yanking him forward. 

‘Éomer,’ Gríma’s voice hitches as Éomer sucks at the base of his neck. He continues to eagerly rub his hand against Gríma, fingers tracing over the outline of the stiffening cock. Éomer himself is hard and he takes a moment to adjust them so he can press himself up Gríma’s leg. Another stifled moan that turns into a hissed: ‘My lord, this is unwise.’ 

‘We went over that, already.’ 

‘No, as in, public. Very public. And Lord Ivar wishes to speak with you and I’ve been gone for too long to have simply relayed the message.’ 

‘I’ll tell him you fucked off somewhere and are unreliable.’ 

‘That is beneath you, my lord.’ 

‘Which is where you will be, hopefully.’

Gríma purses his lips, mutters that he will not respond to this nonsense. With dramatic eye rolling and sighing Éomer steps back, adjusts himself while intently watching Gríma do the same with flushed face and irascible expression. 

‘I shall tell him you’re on your way, my lord?’ 

‘Yes, tell him I’m coming.’ Éomer knows his grin can only be described as cheeky. ‘I’ll arrive soon.’

Gríma looks decidedly unimpressed, tells Éomer that he is being childish, then strides off. 

//

The grand tradition of Éothéod Yule involves the burning of the Yule-stag. It begins upon sundown and the bonfire continues through to sunrise. It has long been Éomer’s favourite holiday, followed by Spring blót and Midsummer Jól. 

Ivar, a generous lord and understanding what his people need after years of war, has brought out seemingly endless barrels of mead, wine, ale, cider and laid out tables of food, all at his own expense. Several goats and a cow have been chosen for sacrifice to open and close the ceremony. The finest in the town, they mill about in the town centre happily receiving treats from towns folk and wearing garlands of fir. Until the goats decide to eat them. 

Éomer spends the remainder of the afternoon with the lords of the town. Several being quite elderly, they are tucked close to hearthfires, call Éomer a boy, and give him unasked for advice about how best to rule justly and graciously. 

Sundown comes with drums and a trumpet call. Dawning his cloak, Éomer joins Ivar in the center square where stands the Yule-stag, still present and accounted for. In the crowd down a ways from him Éomer spies Gríma who looks at the Yule-stag then at Éomer and Éomer is convinced there is fiery mirth in those pale eyes but they are gone before he can be sure. Gríma melts into crowds as winter ice into spring soil. 

A small, raised platform of wood trimmed in fur has been built in front of the Yule-stag. Taking to it, Ivar holds his hands up to beg peace from the crowd. All settle with soft murmurs and hushed conversations dwindling out. 

‘My good people of Armagh,’ Ivar calls out. ‘We gather to celebrate the Yule-tide, to usher in the sun that will bring us spring, and to feel at last the light hearted freedom that comes with peacetime.’ 

He pauses as people whoop and holler. Someone yells, ‘Just set it on fire already.’ 

Ivar laughs, points into the crowd, ‘I know that was you Haakon.’ A small, wiry man with a lively grin shouts back, ‘Some of us are cold, brother-mine.’ People gayly harass Haakon for a moment then settle again. 

Motioning to Deorwine, Ivar is handed a set of elk antlers. He holds them up. The crowd draws back, forming a circle around the stag and the platform. From the crowd, a group of men and women step forward to form a smaller circle about the stag. All present hold antlers and raise them up. 

A drum begins. It pitches low at first, then changes tone to a middling pitch then low again, and onward through the range. Those with antlers begin to dance forward, towards the effigy then out, towards the crowd. Éomer hums along as a song strikes up, led by those dancing and echoed back by the crowd. 

‘Vastly superior to the one we sing in Edoras,’ Éomer remarks as Gríma appears beside him, hands wrapped around a warm mug that steams into the air. Éomer can smell apples. 

‘Everything the Wold does is superior to Edoras.’ 

‘I’m not sure I agree with that.’ 

‘You’re from the south, you’re obliged to disagree.’ 

As the dancers circle the Yule-stag, their song and the drum growing faster, stronger, the crowd pushing in and back in time with the music, the goats are brought to the platform. The first is led onto it. Ivar speaks words over it, dedicates it to the landwights, and slides a large blade through the goat’s neck. There is much blood. Then the second one is led up, the dedication spoken, the knife does its work. Then the third. The cow, Éomer is informed, will be sacrificed at dawn. 

‘Cow first or at dawn in Aldburg?’ Gríma asks. 

‘Dawn.’ 

‘They do it first in the hilltowns near Dunharrow I’ve heard.’ 

Éomer sniffs, whispers: ‘Well they do things differently in the White Mountains.’ Gríma snorts, mutters that no one ought to hear Éomer say such a thing. Éomer ignores this, saying, ‘We do a lot of poultry, though. In Aldburg. And more sheep, fewer goats.’ 

‘Well, that makes sense.’ 

Éomer hums an agreement. Then asks, ‘Did you get your two pence back?’ 

‘I did. I like this system of returning mugs to the alehouse or tavern in return for small change. I think this should be implemented in Edoras.’ 

‘Asking for trouble, I think.’ 

‘Hardly,’ Gríma scoffs. ‘It wouldn’t be a difficult policy to enact and it would mean that I could walk away with an ale then return the glass later and get some money back.’

‘What if you lose it?’ 

‘That would be unfortunate, my lord, for you wouldn’t get your two pence back.’

‘I think this is a guaranteed way to ensure complete chaos and turbulence in our fair city. I’m nixing the idea.’ 

Gríma mutters that Éomer is underestimating the good people of Edoras. Sure, it might lead to brawls the first year but all new policies and programs have their rough patches upon initial implementation. Then you learn the pinch-points and can smooth it out to support the greater effectiveness of overall program delivery. 

Half-listening, Éomer watches the dance wind down and the torch bearer step forward. Gríma is saying something about keeping notes on how certain policies are unfolding when Éomer nudges his arm, nods to the Yule-stag and whispers: ‘They’re going to start the fire.’ Gríma quiets himself with sipping his drink. 

An old woman, the torch bearer slowly walks to the platform and bows deeply before Ivar. Her grey hair is bound up in several ornate braids and knots threaded through with gold. Standing before Ivar she waits with solemn face for him to anoint her cheeks and forehead with the goat blood. Once this is complete she turns to face the Yule-stag and, singing a horse-call song, begins the fire. 

The crowd cheers as the flames come to life, licking up into the Yule-stag. The torch-bearer watches them grow then, when her song is finished, takes the bowl of blood from Ivar and throws both the bowl and her torch into the flames. 

The revelry begins.

‘Sunrise,’ Ivar clasps Éomer on the shoulders, ‘Do you want to do the honours?’ 

‘Which honours are we speaking of?’ 

‘Whichever — the sacrifice or the arrows.’ 

Éomer takes a drink of his ale then says he thinks it would be best if he just watched. ‘Next time I’m Armagh for a blót or festival, it would be an honour. But this is the first Yule-tide since the war ended, I think it is only right that the lords of your town perform their office.’ 

Ivar wæs hæls with Éomer, clinking glasses. ‘Have you danced yet, my lord?’ 

‘I have not,’ Éomer replies, knowing that he is about to go dance. ‘But the night is young and it’s next on my list.’ 

It is after Éomer has managed to dance with most of the women he felt it was his duty to dance with, that Éomer informs Gríma that he intends to marry the torch-bearer. 

‘I’m going to marry her,’ Éomer declares, filling a bowl with cured sausages and preserved fruit. ‘She will be my bride. Your political scheming to advance Éomarc’s place in the world is for nothing. I am marrying for love. It will be a union blessed by the gods.’ 

‘She’s over eighty, my lord.’ 

‘Eighty-three, she told me, as of July. She has five children and eleven grandchildren. Her horse is named Tovewulf and she has been widowed these past four years.’ 

Gríma, seated on the top of a barrel of ale, blinks owlishly. ‘My you did dig for details.’ 

‘We danced a jig and she told me this herself with very little prompting. Have you tried this yet?’ He points to a delicate brass bowl filled with a sweet looking sauce. 

‘It’s good with the goose,’ Gríma replies. Then, for something to add, he says, ‘The pastries are quite nice. The pinwheels in particular. Cinnamon with walnuts. Lord Ivar is putting on a show.’ 

Éomer nods, oh yes the lord truly is. And who can blame him? The first Yule-tide after the war — it is bound to be a grand fete. Midsummer was still too close to the end of things for it to feel like a true festival. And autumn harvest is never a big to-do. 

‘So,’ Gríma leans over and takes up a bowl of pickles. ‘You’re marrying the torch-bearer.’

Éomer points at him with a piece of bread, ‘You can’t eat the entire bowl of pickles.’ 

Looking Éomer directly in the eye Gríma takes a bite of one, then chews with great deliberation. 

Éomer huffs. This is what happens when you let people loose at Yule-tide: chaos. Yule-stags sometimes get disappeared and set alight early, you fall in love with eighty-three year old widows with eleven grandchildren, someone rudely steals the entire stash of pickles. 

Gríma’s snakish smile briefly emerges before disappearing itself. Sliding off the barrel he says that he is going to go stare at the bonfire for a time. As a child he was always told that if you stare hard enough, you can see the eyes of the gods themselves. 

‘And have you?’ Éomer asks. 

‘Have I?’ 

‘Seen the eyes of the gods?’ 

‘The gods don’t have eyes, my lord. Leastways, not the ones I’ve seen.’ 

//

The small hours come with a dip in temperature so most people keep close to the bonfire. Others head home to sleep a small sleep before the dawn ceremony. In this quieter moment of the night, Éomer tugs Gríma’s sleeve and says he wants to have a word. 

‘Now?’ Gríma frowns. 

‘No, mid-day tomorrow.’ 

Going after Éomer, Gríma hisses: ‘This isn’t wise.’ 

Éomer thinks this is probably true, but he trusts his luck spirits to keep them relatively safe. He figures that his abundance of them will outweigh Gríma’s complete lack. Gríma glances over his shoulder then, with a face that can only be described as grumpy, agrees to follow. 

Away from the heady heat and song of the flames, there is darkness enough to loiter and hide away in. Éomer discreetly makes his way to his rooms. Once inside, with door locked, there is a pause. The fire is low so the room is slightly chilled. Éomer can feel Gríma’s nervous energy, knows how quickly the man can skitter away if he thinks it would behoove him. Turning to face him Éomer takes his arm and gently tugs him over to the bed. Climbing on Éomer pulls Gríma after him so they’re both on the mattress and he thinks maybe he should have built the fire up first. But no, they will be fine, they can roll about under the covers and pull more blankets up from the trunk at the base of the bed if need be. 

After the initial awkward pause of: _what now,_ Éomer reaches forward, cups Gríma’s face, and kisses him. It is slower than previous times, because it is allowed to be. Because there is quiet here, and some notion of privacy. So the kiss lingers, deepens, Gríma’s hands are on either side of Éomer’s face. Their mouths open and Éomer hears himself moan softly. Breaking away, he sits back against the headboard pulling Gríma towards him to straddle his lap, still swathed in winter cloak. Resting hands on Éomer’s shoulders Gríma tentatively leans in to kiss Éomer. The first is fleeting — a brush of lips. The second is hard, causing Éomer to moan, to think that Gríma’s mouth should never leave his, to think that _gods_ , he is desperate. Gríma moves from Éomer’s mouth to neck, one hand scooping up the back of Éomer’s head, the second tugging at Éomer’s belt, loosening it enough to fully undo it. Éomer lets his eyes shut. Feeling the shifting weight in his lap he gives a small half-thrust up. Gríma squirms in response. 

Opening his eyes, Éomer smirks, places hands on Gríma’s hips and presses him down. He hears a soft gasp as he brushes a thumb towards Gríma’s inner thighs. Another slight shift that Éomer rubs up into. 

‘I could feel you squirm in my lap all day,’ Éomer purrs against Gríma’s ear. 

‘Night,’ Gríma murmurs into Éomer’s neck. ‘It’s night time.’ 

‘Don’t ruin the moment.’ Éomer then tucks a hand between Gríma’s legs, thumb sliding up inner thigh prompting a hitched gasp of his name as Gríma returns to kissing him. Fuck, he wants to ride Gríma, wring every possible noise from him. 

‘Clothes,’ Éomer says in a pause to catch breath. ‘They should come off.’ 

Silently Gríma slides off Éomer’s and, facing him, waits. What for, Éomer isn’t sure, so he cautiously undoes the clasp holding Gríma’s cloak on and pushes it off his shoulders. Gríma returns the favour with Éomer’s cloak. Then, again, waits. Éomer wishes he could read minds. Or, you know, Gríma would speak. The man goes on at length when it best pleases him to, but becomes a silent standing stone at the most inopportune times. 

‘That is alright, isn’t it?’ Éomer tries. Gríma nods. Éomer wants to shake the man. ‘I can’t read your mind.’ 

A sly smile, ‘For the best, my lord.’ Then Gríma undoes his belt, carefully winds it up and sets it on top of his cloak. His outer tunic comes off next, also carefully folded and set aside. Éomer, in his undressing, is less meticulous in the folding but more thorough in the actual removal of clothes. Which is to say, he gets most everything off save leggings before Gríma’s askanced watching gives him pause. 

‘Those are very nice clothes,’ Gríma remarks. 

‘They’ll be fine.’ 

Gríma appears unconvinced, but Éomer is hitching up the man’s undershift, hands eager for skin, and that distracts from the apparent horror of how Éomer treats his clothes when rushed. Tugging the laces of leggings enough to slide a hand in Éomer rubs the flat of his palm against Gríma’s hard cock. 

Gríma’s eyes shut, brow furrowing into a look of concentration he moves his hips into Éomer’s hand. Éomer kisses him, pulling the undershift further up with his free hand until Gríma apparently takes the hint and pulls it off himself. 

‘Like an onion,’ Éomer mutters. 

_‘Excuse me?’_

‘Many layers,’ he clarifies, pulling his hand out of leggings as he pushes Gríma onto his back to happily sit astride his thighs. ‘Now,’ Éomer leans over, pressing their mouths together for a brief moment at the same time as Gríma pushes his hips up and Éomer can feel how hard he is which distracts for a solid few seconds as all Éomer thinks is: _wantwantwant_. ‘How do we want to do this?’ 

‘Preferably with some attention paid to the time. You’re going to be missed if you aren’t already.’ 

Éomer scoffs, ‘It’s the quiet hours of the night — this is when people go for a nap before dawn. We’re fine.’ Shifting his hips he watches Gríma bite back a gasp. ‘I like it when you moan for me.’ He rubs himself against Gríma and waits for the response. Which comes as a gasp of _Éomer, please._ Éomer purrs, ‘Please what?’ 

‘Please.’ 

Éomer drops his head to kiss where neck meets shoulder then over collar bone to chest. He murmurs _please what?_ against skin.

‘Fuck me, you disaster of a man.’ 

Éomer looks up, catches sight of eyes widening and in an endeavor to stave off the imminent _I-spoke-out-of-turn_ Éomer gives a self-satisfied smirk. Leaning back up, he kisses Gríma, presses tongue into Gríma’s mouth. Gríma arches into him, one arm wrapping around Éomer’s neck, the other wandering between their bodies to trace the outline of Éomer’s cock, thumb rubbing over the top. Éomer’s breath hitches. He thinks he wants his prick in Gríma’s mouth, wants to watch him suck, wants to feel his tongue on his cock, his balls, between his legs. Éomer also wants to be on top of him, riding him, watching himself enter Gríma. He also wants Gríma’s hands on him, stroking him, their bodies rubbing together. 

Anything really. 

Sitting back, Éomer finishes unlacing Gríma’s leggings as well as his own. Hooking fingers into Gríma’s he drags them down until Gríma shuffles the remainder off. In the brief moment Éomer took to take his own off Gríma manages to dive beneath covers muttering about the cold and how it is terribly rude for winter to exist. 

Large, pale eyes stare from over the top of the blankets. Éomer hates that he finds this mildly endearing. 

Following suit, Éomer tucks himself into the warmth then tugs Gríma against him so it’s naked body against naked body. ‘What shall we do?’ Éomer asks against Gríma’s mouth. 

‘Whatever you’d like, my lord.’ 

‘And what would you like?’ 

Gríma shrugs. Éomer sighs. Decides to be terribly direct: ‘Do you want me inside you, my cock up your arse? Do you want me to down on you? Do you want to go down on me? Do you want me to pull you off—’ 

‘Ah.’ 

Éomer lets Gríma think, occupying himself with Gríma’s jawline, neck, shoulders — teeth scraping over skin. He feels Gríma’s hands on him, his back, chest, down to hips, around to his cock, stroking him, making him moan. 

‘The first option, I think,’ Gríma says, fingers tightening. Éomer wants desperately to rut himself into the hand until the end of time. But the words finally click through and he thinks, oh good. 

Rolling off Gríma and out of the bed, Éomer dives for his bags and rummages until he finds some saddle oil then hastens back to find that Gríma, in the brief moment Éomer was gone, has rolled himself up in a blanket and now makes a bundle beneath the covers. 

‘It is absolutely not that cold,’ Éomer says, coaxing the sheets free from Gríma’s grip. Gríma makes an ugly face at him. Says that some people do not exude heat like a walking fire. Éomer smirks as he pulls Gríma free, turns him over onto his stomach and, once the older man stops grousing about the state of the world, slowly presses a finger in. Waits. Gríma’s breath hitches, shoulder blades shift. Slowly, Éomer fucks him, listening to the way Gríma’s breathing changes, how it picks up, watches his legs spread. When he presses a second one in Gríma muffles a moan into a pillow, his hips pushing back as Éomer’s fingers move forward. 

A rasped, ‘Gods, please,’ as Gríma’s fingers wind into the blankets. 

‘Please what?’ Éomer hums. Gríma’s hips jerk up as a response. Éomer fingers him harder, desperately ignoring his own aching cock. 

‘Please more,’ Gríma hisses. ‘That surely must be obvious.’ 

‘Oh, it is, but I like hearing you say it.’ 

Gríma throws a glower over his shoulder at Éomer who pushes a third finger in and watches the older man’s face shift into: _oh._ Eyes widening a fraction, thin lips parting, an exhalation then sharp breath in. Legs spreader a little wider. That alone makes Éomer want to come. 

He gives a few more thrusts to earn some gasped _please’s_ and _gods_ and _Éomer’s_ (with a drawn out r that is buried into the pillow) before withdrawing his hand and repositioning himself so he is between those nicely spread legs. Éomer works oil onto himself then, pulling Gríma’s hips up, presses himself inside. 

A beat. 

Éomer hears revelers outside, a distant thrum, then there’s Gríma’s breathing, the sound of blankets shifting, then he pulls out a fraction and thrusts back in. Another moan muffled against pillows, blankets are clutched, Gríma whispers that Éomer needs to fuck him properly or be done with it. So Éomer does. Hard. His fingers digging into Gríma’s boney hips he watches himself move in and out. Gods, Gríma’s tight and Éomer wants to fuck every inch of him. The sound of skin on skin, gasped breaths, hushed groans, it’s all music to Éomer’s ears and he never wants this to end. 

One of Gríma’s hands snakes back to wrap around Éomer’s wrist and tug it forward. Éomer feels a tongue lick up one finger then another as Gríma takes them in his mouth and begins to suck on them.

Fuck, Éomer thinks, fuck he's in his mouth, up his arse - gods he wants to spend, wants to fill him, wants to keep riding him, wants his cock both where it is now and in Gríma’s mouth. One of Gríma’s hands disappears beneath himself and begins stroking. 

Éomer’s thrusts pick up speed, and he is soon gasping Gríma’s name as the other man moans around Éomer’s fingers. A shuddering moment where everything seems to freeze and then Gríma’s body tightens, shoulders hunch forward, toes curl, and he comes. Éomer thinks this shouldn’t end just yet but oh is it good to feel that, to see Gríma’s muscles tense, shift, to feel him tighten around him. Taking his fingers out of Gríma’s mouth he holds both hips, yanking the other man back as he thrusts in a few more times, desperate and gasping, until he lets himself come apart.

Gríma is the first to move as he wriggles beneath Éomer and complains that this isn’t the most comfortable position to remain in for the long duration. Éomer then laughs against Gríma’s shoulder and tells him that the situation is perfectly comfortable, from his perspective.

‘But, I am feeling magnanimous,’ Éomer says, rolling off to lie beside Gríma who glowers at him. ‘So, still a tie?’ 

‘I beg your pardon?’ 

‘The backgammon game —’ 

‘We are not using that as a long term euphemism for shameless debauchery.’

Éomer grins and pulls Gríma against him murmuring, ‘it’s an honest question,’ as he presses their mouths together. 

‘Very well, my lord, yes, it remains a tie.’ 

‘Excellent.’ 

Gríma peers at him with great suspicion. Éomer decides that Gríma’s features, though unattractive as a whole, are rather nice when screwed up into overly exaggerated expressions. He thinks he also likes that they’re still against each other and firmly believes they should remain thus until they absolutely must return outside for the dawn ceremony. 

In the silence, Gríma begins to tug away, pulling up covers and burying himself beneath them. From within the quilted den he says, ‘We should probably dress, my lord.’ 

‘Probably,’ Éomer agrees with a sigh. Standing, he begins the process of washing up and slowly dressing. About the edges of his sightline, Gríma does the same. The man’s ability to go from naked in bed to washed and fully dressed in record speed Éomer finds terribly strange but decides to relegate the pondering of it to another time. He could say that he likes seeing the other man without clothes but suspects this wouldn’t be well received so tucks it away. Gríma might have the appearance of an under-fed shut-in who hasn’t seen sunlight in five years but Éomer thinks him attractive. 

Unique, as Éothain says. 

Finally pulling on his winter cloak and doing the winter clasp, Éomer says, ‘I’ll leave first.’ Then he pulls Gríma against him for a quick, fiery kiss before disappearing out the door. 

//

Dawn stretches soft fingers of pink and pale gold into the sky. The bonfire is still going strong as people, drowsy with sleep or still drunk from the night-time festivities, gather in a tender silence. 

Again taking his position at the small, raised platform Ivar dedicates the cow to the summer and to Bema and performs the sacrifice. At the same time, two archers light their arrows on fire and, as the sky brightens and the soft gold deepens, they fire them into the ascending sun. 

‘A happy Yule-tide, my lord,’ Gríma greets as he materializes by Éomer. He hands him something warm in a mug. ‘Tea.’ 

‘Will we get two pence back?’ 

‘Naturally.’

Éomer smiles, says they should wæs hæl to the new sun and the new year. ‘Blessings of midwinter and Yule be on you,’ he says. ‘I think we’re certainly off to a good start.’ 

Gríma arches an eyebrow but does not reply. Instead, he drinks his tea and turns his attention to the bonfire as men take the cow away to join the goats in being prepared for the day’s feast. A soft song is struck up on a harp and a group of women begin to sing along. 

Smoke curls up into the sky and the day unfolds with such clear, beautiful brightness. Éomer thinks this as portentous a beginning as any. Fresh snow covers the fields, trees, houses, and stables. Everything is out there to play for and he cannot wait to see what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there is your cheesy ending because this is, ultimately, a cheesy Christmas Movie for you all with Grima and Eomer.
> 
> [...]  
> Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,  
> the world offers itself to your imagination,  
> calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -  
> over and over announcing your place  
> in the family of things.  
> \--Mary Oliver, Wild Geese


End file.
